


Old Soldiers

by Mhalachai



Series: A Widow's Tale [9]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Crossover, F/M, Injury Recovery, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 114,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old soldiers never die, they just fade away. What is left when everything you have, everything you remember, is stripped away?  Sgt. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the Winter Soldier, is about to find out how impossible it is to pick up those pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Setting/Universe Alterations_ : This series was started after Avengers. It can be seen as Iron Man 3 compliant (in fact, we will get into some details from Iron Man 3 in future chapters). The story itself is set in April 2013, nearly a year after Avengers and four months after Iron Man 3. 
> 
> Obviously we are diverging from Agents of SHIELD, which began in Sept. 2013 (I’m going with this chronological timeline rather than making stuff up because it makes my head hurt) and Thor 2 happens midway through AOS, so ignore it all.

* * *

When Sgt. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes went off to the War in Europe, he imagined that he'd return to New York in a fanfare of ticker tape and accolades. A hero.

In reality, James Barnes returned to New York seventy years after leaving for war on the back of a Greyhound bus, missing an arm, half his memories, and thirty seconds away from vomiting on his stolen jacket.

The New York skyline flashed by the bus's windows. James focused on the buildings so he wouldn't be sick. So much construction, so many new buildings; he couldn't tell where the old New York left off and the new expressions of capitalistic greed took over—

He closed his eyes, digging his right fingers into his thigh. He wasn't that _thing_ any longer, not a mindless brainwashed Soviet killer. He was himself, James Buchanan Barnes, somehow still a Sergeant in the U.S. military. He wouldn't fall onto the old Soviet programming as a default. He had his own thoughts and opinions; he was not an automaton shaped and forged by those bastards in Department X.

The Winter Soldier was not all he was.

James opened his eyes. He was more than the Winter Soldier, he had to be. If not, he might as well just get off this bus and step on front of a speeding car; end it all before this went any further.

(Although being hit by a car wasn't the way to go. He had spent a long night in the SGC infirmary planning all the ways he could end his life, as his side ached and the place where his metal arm used to be burned cold and empty.)

The streets outside slowed as the bus turned into the station. This was faintly familiar, as the Winter Soldier had been in New York over the years, on missions or just passing through, one more anonymous face in the crowd.

(He'd take the train to New York that last time, a man with a satchel full of stolen alien technology, a metal arm at his left side, and a need deeper than breathing to see Natalia one more time.)

(Natalia Alianovna Romanova, Natasha, the Black Widow, the best agent he had ever known, the smartest and brightest, the most beautiful. He needed to see her again, to prove to himself that she was safe and alive. He had to see her again, to prove to himself that she still wanted him.)

(He had to see her again.)

The bus took a bump on the cracked asphalt, making James' stomach heave. Acid burned at the back of his throat as he swallowed hard. He was not a slave to his body. He was in control. He could handle the nausea from the road; the pain along his back and side where his muscles had stretched and torn; the gaping ache where his left arm had been ripped from his body.

If his years as the Winter Soldier had taught him one thing, it was how to maintain control.

All he had to do was to find Natalia, and everything would be all right.

It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go. Stealing a doctor's clothing and wallet from the Colorado Springs base hospital and sneaking out the back door was probably the textbook definition of desertion, even under American military rules. He just couldn't stay still any longer; too many shadowed memories of waking under a doctor's knife, to lie quietly in a hospital bed.

So what if he'd had his arm ripped off by an alien? Fuck anyone who thought that would cripple him. Hell, it hadn't slowed him down much the first time.

(On the back of his tongue, he could taste how it felt to fall off the train, reaching for Steve and falling away, reaching up with empty hands as gravity took him, wind screaming empty in his mouth.)

(He did not remember the impact.)

The bus slowly pulled into the transit bay. The air inside the bus took on an excited murmur as the passengers stood, stretching travel-weary legs and reaching for luggage in the overhead racks. Finally, after days of movement, the bus's engine turned off, and there was stillness.

James forced his hand flat, smoothing out wrinkles in his too-large trousers. All he had to do was find Natalia, and then everything would be all right.

The bus was emptying. He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the seat-back in front of him, hauling himself to his feet. The world yawed lazily for a few moments, but he didn't pass out. He'd come a long way since he first hauled himself out of the bed in the Stargate Command infirmary, waking up a few minutes later sprawled flat on the floor.

The bus was nearly empty. James reached up for his stolen backpack, also taken from the doctors' change room in the hospital. He hadn't needed it, but a one-armed man travelling with no luggage was even more of a memorable character. The bag held the stolen wallet, a bottle of water he'd bought on sale in the Omaha bus station convenience store, and a religious magazine he'd picked up during the transfer in Chicago. Ample riches for a man with only one arm left to lose.

Slipping the bag's strap over his shoulder, James walked down the aisle without faltering. The driver was helping an old lady down the steps, so James had a few moments to analyze the bus terminal around him for security weaknesses. Given the layout of the building, there were not as many security flaws as had been at the Chicago terminal. New York kept learning that lesson, he supposed.

Finally the old lady was down the steps. James slipped around the driver, his feet touching unmoving ground for the first time in many hours. Shrugging the bag up his shoulder, he bent his head as he walked towards the terminal doors.

He knew exactly what he had to do. Natalia lived in Stark Tower, so all he had to do was get to Stark Tower. As plans went, it was pretty basic, but he had learned many years before that the more details in a plan, the more things that could go wrong.

He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, across the bus terminal floor. His stolen sneakers were a size too small, one more minor annoyance to distract him from the pulsating pain in his left side.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a few people staring at him. He steeled himself to keep going. What could they possibly see? A man with long hair, left jacket arm hanging empty, shuffling along like he had somewhere to be? They didn't know anything.

Just in case, he changed direction towards the men's toilet. Once inside the small room, he walked to the urinal farthest from the door and waited to see if anyone followed him. A few men milled about the room, doing their business. No one else came through the door. James didn't think that anyone was trailing him, but he hadn't survived for so long by taking anything for granted.

Attention on full, James undid his belt, unzipped the trousers and pulled out his dick. His bladder was full from the long bus ride, and he pissed for long enough that his trousers started to slide off his hips. He automatically reached for the waistband with his left hand, but since he'd left that limb in a pool of blood and bone shards in Texas, the pants slipped further. Gritting his teeth, James clenched up as he let go to pull up the trousers. This time, he held the pants against his hip with a press of forearm as he steadied his dick over the urinal to finish up.

Fuck it. He was going to have to start wearing suspenders again.

He gave himself a good shake, then tucked everything away and did up his trousers. The belt was more difficult; it was sadistic to make anyone try to thread a belt one-handed.

Finally, he was presentable enough for the streets of New York. He shuffled over to the sink and washed his hand. He'd spent years perfecting the art of washing one handed; too much water exposure on his left hand tended to screw up the metal joints.

Not that he had to worry about that any more.

He wiped his hand on his shirt and pulled his jacket over the wet spot. Looking at himself in the mirror was a bit startling, but at least he didn't look…. Abnormal. Just another sickly white guy with a few days' beard, long brown hair, missing an arm. Nothing to see.

James pressed his fingers against his neck. He felt a bit feverish, but his glands didn't feel swollen. Hopefully the three days without any medicine or antibiotics wouldn't turn into an infection. Once he found Natalia, he'd find a back-street doctor to hand over some antibiotics and painkillers. Barring that, he'd track down a drug dealer and get some heroin or something to take the edge off the pain, just for a few days.

So, no infection, and almost presentable. James shifted the backpack up onto his shoulder (he wanted nothing more than to ditch the thing, but leaving a backpack alone in a New York bus station was a sure-fire way to attract the attention of the police) and pulled his dog tags out to show against his shirt. Anything he could do to fit the public's preconceptions of a modern military amputee, to avoid people thinking too hard about how to classify him.

Taking a breath, James walked to the door of the bathroom.

The air in the terminal smelled almost sweet after the stench of stale urine in the men's toilet. No one followed James as he made his way out of the terminal. Outside on the street, a watery sun shone through the late-afternoon haze. The cacophonous noise of a workday rush-hour pressed against James' head. He took a deep breath, letting the metallic sheen of pollution into his lungs, and started walking.

Getting to Stark Tower wouldn't be that difficult. Just head along 33rd and then up Park Avenue to Grand Central Station, where Tony Stark's monstrosity of modern architecture stood like a beacon over the city.

New York flowed around James as he walked, just another face in the crowd.

As he trudged along the path to Stark Tower, gaping holes in the architecture began to show. Some buildings still bore the scars of the Chitauri invasion, a year later. Other buildings gleamed clean and whole, repaired as if nothing had ever happened.

Here and there lay tiny memorials for the fallen. Nothing large; a handful of plastic flowers here, a painted cross there. James remembered when he first learned about the Chitauri attack, a few days after he'd staggered out of the stasis chamber. He'd dug up a lot of information in those first few days; 9/11, wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the Chitauri.

The world had changed since he went on ice in 1999.

The sidewalk passed under him, step by step. Nausea lurked in the back of his throat, mixed with the pain in his left side, the gaping ache where his arm had once been. Each step felt like he was carrying a full pack in one of those hellish marches in basic training (carrying full flour sacks on his shoulders in Mr. Hamish's grocery when he was eleven and desperate for any job after school) (carrying bleeding bodies over his shoulder in the field, bullets flying around him). But he would not stop to rest, he had a mission. Get to Stark Tower and find Natalia, then everything would be all right.

She'd told him she would come back for him. She'd said she loved him. So she wouldn't be too upset if he found her first. She knew how much he hated waiting.

(Impatient, someone had called him, someone adult and loud and dressed all in black. He'd been smaller then, sad about losing… a sister. He didn't remember her name but he'd had a sister and they'd taken her away from him.)

He reached the corner of 33rd and Park and turned northeast. It wasn't far, just ten blocks to go. When he was a kid, he'd walked farther than that to school every day.

A block in, and his breath hitched painfully in his chest. It'd been happening on and off since he came out of surgery, missing the last bits of his left arm. Do too much, try to force his body to do things _it should fucking well be able to do,_ and the hitch in his lungs came back. He hated it, hated being weak.

Still, he would not let his weakness be seen. Even if he wasn't being tailed, showing vulnerability in a place like New York, even on Park Avenue, was just begging to get mugged. Or it had been in the seventies when James was last there. People said the city had changed, but he would believe that when he saw it. The few weeks he'd spent in Brooklyn earlier in the year wasn't enough to convince him of anything.

He shuffled over to a lamp post and leaned against the pole. In this part of town, loitering about a storefront in his scruffy condition was a great way to get arrested. One-armed veterans straight off the bus from Chicago were not a welcome addition to the Park Avenue landscape.

A shudder of revulsion slid through his belly at the thought of the consumer excesses in the shops along this street. One of New York's cookie-cutter rail-thin blonde women walked past him, carrying a purse that cost more than a maid would take home in a year. He wasn't sure what part of him was so disgusted: the Winter Soldier, Soviet agent, or Bucky Barnes, the dirt-poor orphan who'd spent an entire year working long hours at the grocery after school just to be able to buy his best friend some colouring pencils for his birthday?

James blinked at the shard of memory. He remembered that he had managed to buy the pencils for his friend, but he couldn't remember _which_ friend. The gap in his memory ached; cold water on a broken tooth.

But James did not have time to think about his past. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the uniformed rent-a-cop swaggering in his direction, intent on sweeping the trash away down the street. James pushed himself off the lamp post and shuffled along, being sure to turn his empty sleeve in the guard's direction as a parting fuck-you.

Not that he blamed the guard. The man was just doing his job. His bosses would not want anything to disturb the rich people as they were being parted from their money.

Seven blocks to go.

The damage from the Chitauri attack was impossible to miss, this close to Grand Central Station. Scaffolding stood around the buildings crushed by the giant space whale. James had seen the spotty security footage pieced together by that hacking group, the Rising Tide. The footage was spotty and pixelated, but it was enough for his purposes. Enough to know what had happened.

Six blocks.

A food truck sat on the corner, tempting passers-by with gourmet hotdogs. James' stomach rumbled, but he kept walking. Seven dollars for a hotdog, what the ever-loving fuck. When he and Steve were kids, they'd head down to Coney Island, having scrounged for weeks to save up the twenty cents for a hot dog each—

James stopped dead. Steve. That was who he'd bought the colouring pencils for, that was who he'd spent every day with after coming to the orphanage in Brooklyn. Steve, short and skinny and always sick, sharp cheekbones and enough attitude in his little body for three grown men.

Steve, now big and blond and every time James thought about _Steve_ , something broken rattled around inside his head and he wanted to lash out, to inflict pain (falling) and he didn't know why.

A car horn blared, pulling James' attention back to himself. He had stopped in the middle of a crosswalk, and the light was about to turn yellow. He flipped off the impatient driver and continued across the intersection. He would not fall apart in the middle of Park Avenue. He might be missing an arm and fighting off a fever, but what was left of the Winter Soldier in his head would not allow him to crumple to infirmity.

He was not weak.

Four blocks.

Stark Tower rose in the sky, the glass windows reflecting the grey afternoon haze. All James had to do was to make it to Stark Tower, and find Natalia.

Three blocks.

He was at the viaduct now, where most of the Chitauri action had taken place. The city had patched up the structure neatly in the year since the attack. No broken concrete or rebar hung off the overhead structure, James saw as he walked past the open-air tables. Nothing stood between New Yorkers and their business sense.

James' breath hitched in his chest again. This time, he slid the pack off his shoulder and set it down on a vacant bench. He'd had the backpack for three days and still he wasn't able to open the zipper without a fight. Before, with his metal arm, he could at least have steadied the fabric with his metal fingers while his right hand unzipped it.

He struggled through, cheered by the thought that in three blocks, he could get rid of the backpack forever. He removed the bottle of water from the depths of the bag. There were two inches of water left, and he quickly uncapped the bottle and drank deeply. He had learned early in the field to never waste water; you never knew when you'd need it.

The water tasted musty, warm and plastic, but good. Finishing the bottle, he shoved it back into the bag. (Never leave anything behind; that's how they track you in the field.)

Almost there. James started walking again.

Every step felt like an eternity, but his destination was so close that he couldn't stop now. All he had to do was to make it to Stark Tower and find Natalia, then everything would be all right.

If she was there.

She had to be there.

He didn't know what he would do if Natalia wasn't there.

So close now. His stomach twisted in hunger. How long had it been since he'd eaten? The night before, at least. The stolen wallet had just enough cash left for him to buy a tasteless fast food burger when the bus stopped in Chicago. The dollar and thirty-eight cents remaining hadn't been enough for anything else. He hadn't used the credit cards after buying the bus ticket; they'd have been reported stolen by now and he couldn't risk it.

He rounded the corner on the way to Stark Tower. The afternoon traffic around Grand Central station was at full pitch; a work-day afternoon full of people trying to get home.

James put his head down and pressed forward. The crush of people would normally be welcome, bringing with it the anonymity of a crowd. But things were different now; human nature was very good at picking up on things that didn't belong, that were abnormal, and a man with one arm walking through the crowd was bound to attract attention. He knew of the phenomenon; had used it to his advantage in years past. Cripples usually attracted a mix of sympathy and avoidance; making it easier to lift information from a target or to plant something on their person. Very young children, vocalizing or crying, tended to turn the head of every parent in the crowd.

Someone bumped his right side, making the backpack slip down his arm. James grabbed at the strap to keep it on his shoulder, clenching his teeth to stop the Russian curse from crossing his lips. He was so close to his target, he couldn't break character now. This was the most precarious part of his journey, with the police presence around the train station.

He was just a guy, an old soldier missing an arm, nothing threatening about him. He carried no weapons, and nothing about him would raise concerns in the eyes of the police.

(That was his speciality. The Winter Soldier was the perfect Soviet agent; blending in to every background, speaking the language of the land without accent. He had the skills necessary for every trade, every business. Department X gave him everything he ever needed to accomplish his mission – death.)

James gagged on the sudden surge of bile in his throat, at the memories of slaughter in his head. Fragments of memories, no context or understanding. Just death.

A murmur from the crowd pulled James back to himself. He could not fall apart, not when he was so close to his target. He had to keep moving. He had to find Natalia.

With deliberate steps, he kept moving through the crowd. He could see the front doors to Stark Tower, glass and metal gleaming in the late afternoon light.

He was almost there.

He drew himself up and made himself walk with a normal gait. He had much practice in pretending he was not injured; injury drew attention.

Three steps and he was reaching for the door. It opened easily, a wave of warm air washing over him as he stepped inside. The lobby smelled of money; expensive carpet and furniture, air oxygenated from the plants arranged through the room and along the walls. James inhaled, filling his lungs as he prepared for battle.

The wide desk in the middle of the room seated three security guards, but these guards were nothing like the guy in Park Avenue. James would lay odds that every one of them was ex-military.

And all three had their attention fixed firmly on him.

He sauntered up to the desk, smiling his most charming American smile. "Hey there," he said, letting his accent slide right back down to Brooklyn. "I'm here to see Natasha Romanoff."

"Are you?" said the largest of the security officers. Probably former Marine – the man still had the set of jaw James associated with jarheads. "Is she expecting you?"

James shrugged his shoulder. "I thought I'd surprise her."

One of the other guards stood. "Mind if I look in your bag?" she asked.

James spared a glance around the room. Three other guards were surreptitiously standing around the room, very casual. If James didn't know any better, he'd have thought they were expecting him. "Not at all," he said, slinging the backpack around and dropping it on the desk.

He deliberately left it close to his body, to show he wasn't afraid of it exploding or whatever these guards expected. But rather than open the bag, the guard moved it two inches to the left. A blue light shone on the bag from the ceiling, and a three-dimensional rendering of the bag's contents appeared beside it.

Stark's technology, James realized, as the guard touched the hologram and turned it, examining the underside. Trust Tony Stark to have installed million-dollar technology in the lobby.

The guards exchanged a glance. From their expressions, James knew they weren't going to let him pass. The sudden wave of desperation that clenched in his chest took him by surprise. He had to see Natalia. These people would not be able to stop him from seeing Natalia.

Another look around the room. Eight guards now, and all of them carrying weapons. Hardly a fair fight, but he was missing an arm; that gave them an even chance.

As he was deciding which guard to take out first, something on the desk let out a soft ping. The older guard looked at his screen. He wasn't able to hide his frown as he said, "You're free to go up, Sgt. Barnes."

James didn't move. "Is that so?" he asked, trying to figure out what was going on.

The man gave a humourless smile. "Welcome to Stark Tower."

James picked up his backpack and slipped it onto his shoulder. Every guard in the room was staring at him. No one was reaching for their sidearm, but James had been around soldiers for decades; he knew from their alert stances that they were just waiting for him to try something.

Well, the joke was on them. James was just some guy dropping in to visit his girl. Nothing more.

He stood straight as he walked to the elevator doors. His back ached, the muscles in his side burned, his shoulder throbbed with remembered pain, and he wouldn't let these people see a damn thing.

The elevator doors opened as he approached. Not breaking stride, he entered the elevator and turned around just as the doors closed. Before he had a chance to push any of the buttons, the elevator began to rise. "Welcome to Stark Tower," came a voice from the speaker panel. "Mr. Stark is expecting you."

James narrowed his eyes at the voice. A smooth British accent on a very human voice speaking from the walls; he'd seen enough intelligence on Stark and his creations to suspect what this was. "You must be Jarvis."

A pause. "I am. And you are Sgt. James Barnes."

James smiled. "Looks like I'm not the only one who's done their homework."

"Indeed," Jarvis said, and now his voice was frosty. James had to hand it to Stark; his robot butler was living up to the hype. "Scans indicate that you are unarmed."

James' smile froze on his face. If Jarvis' voice hadn't been quite so curt, he'd have thought the robot had just misspoken. As it were, he couldn't help thinking the voice had said those words deliberately. "Jarvis, are you always this much of an asshole?" he asked.

"Only when the individual in question appears to be a threat to those in the Tower," Jarvis replied instantly.

"I've got one arm and my shoes are too tight," James snapped. The pain and exhaustion were getting to him, and his back was starting to seize up. "What kind of a threat do you think I am?"

"Would you like me to go over the SHIELD threat assessment on the Winter Soldier alphabetically, or chronologically?" Jarvis asked.

James bit his lip. Losing his temper at a disembodied voice in an elevator wasn't going to help anything. "Any chance I can see that file?" he asked.

"You will need to take that up with Mr. Stark." The elevator slowed, and the door opened. "Have a nice day."

More through force of will than any remaining stamina, James walked into the room.

Big and open and full of expensive fittings, the penthouse had floor-to-ceiling windows that showed a bird's eye view of half of New York. James' stomach lurched at the height. He didn't like being so high; when you could fall so far.

(Falling.)

Movement caught his eye, and he turned to face the two men in the room. He hadn't even registered them and that bothered him. He wasn't so careless in an unfamiliar place, that wasn't him.

The man in front was Tony Stark – anyone who had access to a television knew Tony Stark. The man's face was plastered on magazines and billboards across the Western world. Ever since the Mandarin attacks at Christmas, the media coverage had only grown thicker.

The other man was unknown to James. He hadn't seen him on his preliminary surveillance of Stark Tower the month earlier, but that didn't mean much; a building this size could hold thousands of employees on a work day. The man was older than James; slightly taller than Stark, with messy brown hair and an intense air about him.

"Steve's not here," Stark said abruptly. "Still on that business in Chicago. Lots of freedom to protect."

At the mention of Steve Rogers, James felt a flash of anger. But he had his mission, and it had nothing to do with Steve. He turned his scowl into a sharp smile. "Is Natasha around?"

Stark scowled at him. "That's all you've got?" he asked. "You spend months on an international crime spree, break into Area 51, and you show up here to ask for Natasha?"

James' pulse sped up. Stark was stalling. Why wasn't she here? If Stark had known he was in the elevator, why hadn't someone sent word to Natalia? "Is she here or not?" James asked, the smile sliding off his face.

"You know she was on the mission in Chicago with Steve, right?" the other man asked, walking around Stark.

James shifted his feet so he was more balanced; something about the room was off. Maybe it was the wide empty horizon. He just needed to focus on something else. "Is she back?" he asked. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. "Is she here?"

The man frowned at James. "Should you be out of the hospital?" he asked, drawing nearer. "We heard what happened in Texas with Isis."

"I'm fine," James said. His heart was pounding now. Where was Natalia? She had to be here. She had to be; he hadn't even considered that she wouldn't be.

He needed her to be there.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what that word means," the man said. He was at James' side, sliding the backpack strap off his arm. James let him, not even able to rouse enough energy to go into a defensive stance. "I'm Bruce."

It took a moment for the name to sink in. When it did, James jerked back involuntarily, nearly overbalancing as he tried to stand away from the man. Bruce Banner, who'd tried to re-create the Super Soldier serum and ended up turning into a big green rage monster. James had read the intelligence files on the man, had seen the footage of the large green man defending New York from the Chitarui. Bruce Banner was not a man to piss off.

The man didn't react, just set the bag on the ground. "Do you need to sit down?" he asked.

James shook his head. The dizziness in his head was spreading through his body, clenching at his stomach and stabbing up his side. His left shoulder throbbed with sharp pain. "Where's Natalia?" he asked again. He wasn't begging. Not yet.

"James?"

James looked up, blinking hard. Natalia stood on the far side of the room, like a vision from heaven, and all he could do was stare. Was she real?

As he stared, Natalia quickly crossed the room to his side. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she was staring up at him with concern on her face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, reaching up to put her hand on his forehead. He closed his eyes at her touch, swallowing a hiccupped sob. Natalia was here. He'd found her. "Why are you out of the hospital?"

He opened his eyes. "Had to see you," he said. He tried to smile, but his mouth didn't seem to want to work. "I missed you."

"You're an idiot," Natalia said, but there was no anger in her voice. "I just got back from Chicago, I was going to fly out to Colorado as soon as I packed a bag."

"Guess I couldn't wait," he said, putting his hand on her arm. She shook her head as she stepped into his embrace. She was so warm, so familiar, so _Natalia_ , that James' knees went weak. He'd found her.

"Idiot," she said again, resting her head on his right shoulder. She hugged him tight, the pressure sending shooting pain up his left side and back. He must have made some sound, for she pulled back. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you to bed."

"I'm not tired," he protested automatically. "Just give me a minute and I'll be good as new." He tried to smile again. "What do you say we go dancing tonight?"

The roll of her eyes was not unexpected. "You're mixing up 'dancing' with 'passing out'," she informed him, putting an arm around his waist to draw him across the room to the elevator.

"The secret's all in the footwork," he said, letting her lead. He hadn't actually planned anything beyond tracking her down; he'd figured that he would sort all that out later.

"And you are quick on your feet," Natalia agreed. He knew that tone in her voice; she was humouring him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Then, quietly, she asked, "Are you running from anyone?"

_Only myself_ , James thought bitterly. "Not right now," he mumbled close to her ear.

"Hey, you okay?" Stark called after them.

Natalia didn't slow down. "Everything's fine, Tony."

"If he needs any medical attention, you can call me," came the other voice, Bruce. It took James a moment to remember why the man was so dangerous; then he remembered the briefing notes, the surveillance footage of a big green man ripping aliens apart. He nearly tripped as he tried to turn around, but Natalia's firm hand on his back kept him moving forward.

"We will, thank you." Natalia's fingers dug into James' side. "He is my friend," she said quietly in Russian, for James' ears only. "Do you understand?"

"You told me you don't have any friends," James said, relieved to switch back to Russian. His voice sounded slurred to his own ears. It must just be the dizziness, he reasoned. Give him a few minutes and he would be just fine.

"I told you that a very long time ago." Natalia pushed him into the elevator and pressed a button. "I have friends now. I told you that in Colorado, do you remember?"

He closed his eyes against the spinning vertigo in his stomach. That only made it worse. "Barton."

"Yes, Clint Barton is a good friend." The door pinged open, and Natalia pulled James out onto a quiet floor. "As is Bruce."

"What about Stark?" James asked. Natalia paused to key in a code at the big door directly across from the elevator door.

"Tony Stark is his own best friend." Natalia pushed open the door and walked inside. "Tony and I are colleagues."

"Do you trust him?" James asked as he stopped in the doorway. The large room was dim and still and smelled faintly of incense and coffee.

"In battle and in the lab, yes I trust him," Natalia told James. She turned on the lights to illuminate a room with wide open spaces, comfortable-looking furniture. Across the room, heavy curtains were drawn against the afternoon sunlight. The far wall was covered by a large quilt, hitched back to show an array of weapons mounted there, at the ready. "Tony Stark is a hard man to be friends with."

"His father was a smart man," James said. He took a few steps over to the couch and sat down, kicking off the too-small shoes. "Smartest we had. One of Captain America's biggest fans."

Until he spoke, James hadn't thought much about Stark's father. But it had been during the War, when the old man (what was his name?) had entangled himself with the Howling Commandoes on their quest to crush Hydra and Nazis. James didn't remember why the thought of the older Stark made him so uncomfortable and he didn't want to. Passing a hand over his face, he carefully leaned back into the couch cushions. The pressure made his back and side hurt, but as the tension lessened along his spine, he could finally take a deep breath.

After a few moments, Natalia sat on the couch at his side. "Drink," she said in a quiet voice. She handed him a mug. "It's water."

He took the mug. Instinct and long-ingrained paranoia made him first sniff at the liquid, then sipped carefully. The cold water was a relief, sliding down his throat to his stomach. He drank the entire cup without stopping for air.

"Good." Natalia took the empty mug from his hand and set it on the low table. She leaned back against James, soft against his arm. He turned to her, put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. She was so warm, so solid against him, and when she kissed him, her lips soft, the icy tension in his chest began to melt.

He had missed this so much, just being with Natalia.

Pulling back from the kiss, she curled up against him. As he held her, the spasms along James' spine eased, the clench of muscles in his back softening. He had been forcing himself in a straight line for so many days, he hadn't even relaxed enough to sleep on the bus. But now, he was safe with Natalia.

"Do you want to tell me why the Air Force hospital discharged you so soon?" Natalia asked in her quiet voice. Her hand was warm on his cheek. "It's only been a week since everything happened."

Seven days since he had woken up in the Stargate Command infirmary missing his left arm and any hopes of being able to get another one. Three days since they moved him to the top-side base hospital.

Three days since James hauled himself out of the hospital bed, stolen some clothes and a credit card, and got on a bus headed to New York.

He shrugged. "What do you think happened?" he asked, settling back against the cushions. His hand slid down Natalia's back to rest against her hip.

Natalia's eyes were steady and very green. "I know how much you hate hospitals and doctors," she said. "I'm trying to figure out if you hate them so much that you'd do something this stupid."

"Define stupid," he shot back at her, pulling away. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. She was supposed to _understand_.

Natalia sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. "In this case, 'stupid' breaks out of a military hospital three days after having his arm torn off and hitchhikes his way across the country."

"Don't be ridiculous," James said, pushing his hair back from his face in agitation. His beard itched and his side hurt and his shoulder ached and all he wanted to do was find a quiet corner where he could curl up and sleep. But Natalia's glare told him that wasn't going to happen any time soon. "I took the bus."

Natalia sprang to her feet, stalking across the room through a doorway. James thought about going after her, but he hurt so much and he was just so tired.

Really, what had he expected? That Natalia not ask him any questions as she tended to his wounds? Even in his state, the idea made James pull a sardonic smile. It was ludicrous to expect Natalia to take him in at face value. She knew him too well; he should have known that she could get the information out of him without even trying.

He let out a breath. He should leave, get back out on the street, try to keep one step ahead of the Air Force. After all, he'd made his choice to abandon his post. If they hadn't locked him up before this, his flagrant desertion was likely to do it now.

At least General O'Neill would be happy.

Bracing himself for the inevitable pain, he sat forward. The muscles on the left side of his back cramped and locked, and it was all he could do to clench his teeth against the scream in his throat.

Just breathe, he told himself. It will pass. Just breathe.

"What do you think you are doing?" Natalia asked, coming back into the big room. She held a large white box.

He glared at her. "Getting out of your hair," he said between gritted teeth. His back wasn't getting any better; the cramps were deepening into the muscles.

Natalia glared back. "Really?" she demanded. "You come all the way here and then you just leave?" She slapped the box onto the low table and opened it; inside James could see a variety of medical supplies. "That is even more idiotic. Sit still."

Her words were harsh, but her hands on his body were gentle as she helped him ease back on the couch. He gripped the cushion in his hand and tried to stretch out his back, to get the muscles back into the alignment he'd had for over ten years, to balance his walk with his metal arm.

Natalia shifted him around to sit behind him. "Where?" she murmured.

"Same as usual," James ground out. He hated to admit weakness, even to Natalia. Especially to Natalia. Once upon a time, he'd been her instructor, her partner. Now he was injured. He couldn't be what Natalia needed.

"Let's get this off you." From behind, Natalia unzipped his jacket and slid it off, letting it fall to the side. Even then, James didn't realize what she was doing until she began to undo the buttons on his stolen shirt.

He grabbed at her hand, his fingers convulsing around her wrist. Rationally, he knew she'd already seen his disfigured body, seen what remained of him after Isis ripped his arm away, but the emotional side of his mind didn't want her to see, didn't want her to see how he was ruined.

"It's all right," Natalia said in his ear. She kissed the back of his head. "Let me take care of you tonight."

"Why?" he choked out, not releasing her wrist.

"Because you've done the same thing for me." She turned her arm in his grip, pressing her palm flat against his chest. "Please, James."

Hearing her saying his name stole James' breath away for a moment. For so many years, he had not had a name to give her. Hearing it here, now…

He let go of her wrist. "Say it again," he whispered. He needed to hear it again, to know he wasn't just imagining things.

Mercifully, she knew exactly what he meant. "James," she said in his ear, her voice low and soft and for him alone.

He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Natalia slid her hands down his chest to resume her work on his buttons.

In no times at all, she had the shirt undone and was easing it off his shoulder, to the side. He braced himself for her comments on his ruined body; how could she not say anything? But she said not a word, just placed her hands on his back and started to massage the cramps out of his muscles.

She couldn't avoid the bruises from the beating Isis gave him, but the pressure of Natalia's hands on his back was enough to help him think beyond the pain. He sat still as Natalia worked her way up from his lower right side to his right shoulder. She always knew exactly where he hurt, and exactly how to help him.

"Are you getting cold?" she asked after a while. James blinked; he'd closed his eyes. His back felt better now. Had he blacked out for a few minutes?

"Doesn't matter," he said. He rubbed his eyes with his hand to rouse himself.

"Warmth helps healing, you know that." Natalia slipped out from behind him. She was grace and beauty personified, and James couldn't to any more than look at her. "How about a bath?"

He blinked again and tried to think through her words. Apparently it took him too long, because Natalia bent forward and half-pulled, half-lifted him to his feet. She slipped under his arm and began walking him towards an open door across the room.

"Where are we going?" James asked. He figured he should at least know that. But he trusted Natalia, she wouldn't hurt him or turn him over to the enemy. He trusted her.

"You are going to take a bath because you smell like you've been on a bus for days." Natalia led him to the darkened door and paused to turn on a light. The room inside lit up, in cream-coloured walls and white tiling. The room held a bathtub and shower.

And a large mirror.

James froze at the sight in the mirror. That wasn't him on Natalia's arm. It couldn't be.

The person in the mirror was a caricature of a man; disfigured and lopsided, arm gone like some animal had bitten the shoulder clean off his body. His left side was dark with bruises in various stages of healing, showing mottled purple and green.

Other bruises were scattered over his chest from Isis's beating, nearly hiding the scars that lay on his skin from years in battle. Under the bruises and swelling, his skin stretched tight over muscle and bone.

The man in the mirror was a wreck, a perversion of human anatomy.

This was what he had become.

"We're nearly there," Natalia said, guiding him into the bathroom. "This should make you feel better."

Unable to take his eyes off the mirror, James tripped on the small carpet in the middle of the room and pitched forward; only Natalia's arm around his waist kept him from falling on his face. With more strength than grace, Natalia turned them both around and sat James on the edge of the bathtub, kneeling before him.

"Not too hot," she said, her hands on his knees. "Okay?"

James' heart was beating so fast that he wasn't sure what she was saying, but he nodded. Natalia reached past him to turn on the water into the tub, then leaned back in silence. Her hands were warm on his thighs and she was so close to him, looking into his eyes.

James' stomach roiled. He knew now what Natalia saw when she looked at him and it made him sick, made him want to scream. He should have stepped off the bus in the middle of Nebraska and just kept walking until his strength gave out. Dying alone in the wilderness would have been far better than having become this _thing_ , ruined and broken.

"Come on," Natalia said after a few minutes. "Pants off."

She hauled him up, again with no apparent effort, and deftly stripped off his trousers, underwear, and socks. She helped him to balance on her shoulder as he stepped into the half-filled bathtub, and to sit-down without slipping or falling over.

The water was warm, not hot, but still stung the bruises on his legs and lower torso. James let out a hiss as he settled down in the water.

"Too hot?" Natalia asked.

James shook his head. For the first time in days, weeks, he didn't have that bone-deep chill that had chased him ever since the stasis chamber. The last time he'd escaped it had been deep underneath CheyenneMountain, in Natalia's bed, lying beside her in the darkness.

The cold had been deep in his bones ever since Texas, on that cold concrete floor in a pool of his own blood, dying. He had never felt anything as cold as that, lying there, waiting for death to come.

In the days in hospital, he'd hardly slept at all, cold and in pain, reliving the sensation of his arm being twisted around, Isis's foot pressing down hard on his ribs, how the bones in his arm snapped one after the other, when the flesh finally split under the pressure—

Distantly, James heard the water turn off, the sudden silence in the room overwhelming. His breathing was loud in his own ears and he didn't know what to do.

Natalia knelt beside the tub, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She dipped one hand into the water and lifted handful after handful of water to his back, letting the warm water run down his skin. And all he could do was sit there.

"Why isn't your shoulder bandaged?" she asked.

James blinked up from where he had been staring at his submerged feet. "What?"

Natalia cupped his cheek with a wet hand, her thumb stroking along his jaw. "Why aren't there bandages on your shoulder?"

James was suddenly reminded of the pain in his left side. He swallowed against the churning in his stomach. "I took it off in Chicago," he said when his nausea was under control. "The gauze was rubbing."

He didn't want to say any more, didn't want to remember the way the bandage rubbed hard against the stitches, the dried puss making the fabric hard as sandpaper on his skin. He hadn't taken any spare bandages with him when he snuck out of the hospital; at the time it hadn't occurred to him.

Natalia didn't say anything, just stood and walked out of the room. By the time James realized that he should probably worry about that, she was back, carrying a small jar and a spoon. "Are you hungry?" she asked, kneeling once again beside the tub.

James shook his head. The thought of food made his stomach twist. With the pain he was feeling, all he wanted to do was to curl up in a corner somewhere and wait to pass out.

Natalia set the small jar on the side of the bathtub. James watched, unable to move his gaze elsewhere, as she unscrewed the lid, then she dipped the spoon into the jar. Pulling it out, she swirled the dark yellow substance around the spoon so it wouldn't drip.

"What's that?" James asked, his mouth dry.

"Emergency rations, soldier." She handed him the spoon. "It's honey. It will help your stomach."

"There's nothing wrong with my stomach," he muttered as he put the spoon in his mouth. The explosion of sweetness on his tongue made him close his eyes for a moment. He swallowed convulsively, the honey sliding down his throat.

Natalia wet a washcloth and used it to wash his back, his right arm, his chest. Her touch was light and she avoided the bruises as best she could.

When James had licked the last of the honey from the spoon, he put it down beside the jar. "Do you want more?" Natalia asked.

He shook his head. The bath water was cooling, and he had revived enough to be irritated by the sensation. "Can I get out of here now?"

Natalia stood instantly, reaching to steady him as he stood. He clenched his teeth at the humiliation; a man who had once been the Soviets' most agile and virile agent, now unable to stand by himself from the bath.

If Natalia had similar thoughts, she kept them to herself as she helped him step out of the bathtub and onto the mat. She wrapped a towel around his waist, tucking one end in to hold it around his hips. Then she picked up another towel and started drying his back.

That was too much. "I don't need your help," James said forcefully, grabbing the towel from her hands and stepping away. He would slit his own throat before being that weak in front of this woman.

Natalia spread her hands. "If that's what you want," she said, voice expressionless. "I'll leave some clothes on the bed for you."

And with that, she walked out of the room.

James gripped the towel hard, trying to breathe his way through the surge of panic and shame. He wasn't some crippled old man, he had to be more than that. There had to be some hint of the man he'd been before, even with only one arm. If his fate was to be a useless cripple, unable to bathe himself, he might as well take one of those guns off Natalia's wall and blow the back of his head off.

(His mind played over the weapons he'd seen, knew what kind of ammunition they used, firm in the knowledge that Natalia was not a woman to keep unloaded weapons to hand.)

His lower back twinged, pulling him back to the present. He used the towel to wipe most of the water off his chest and arm. He didn't even try to dry his back, just tossed the towel over his shoulder and gave himself a minute to compose himself before walking out of the bathroom.

Standing in the hall, James looked around. The living room was empty. Off to his left, he could hear the faint clink of cutlery against glass. To his right, a door stood ajar, light showing behind it.

He went right.

The door opened easily under his hand. A large bed was tucked into the corner opposite the door. _Never let anyone sneak up on you while you sleep_ , echoed in James' mind. He pushed the sliver of memory away. The room was full of shelves and furniture, with books and knick-knacks on nearly every surface.

The room was friendly and warm and smelled like Natalia, faint hints of her perfume and her soap and leather from the jacket slung casually over an armchair in the corner. She had made this space herself, James realized. This was how she chose to sleep, in a room full of things she picked out herself. She wasn't under the control of the Red Room any longer. She could dress how she wanted, read what she wanted, live how she wanted.

Somehow, in the long months since he had clawed his way out of the stasis chamber in Russia, it had never occurred to him how different life was for Natalia now.

He shouldn't have come here.

James made himself cross the room to the bed. A pair of men's sweatpants and a t-shirt were laid out for him. He shucked the towel to the ground and managed, after a few false starts, to step into the sweatpants. They fit perfectly. James didn't want to think whose pants these could be, that Natalia could lay hands on them so quickly. Or had they been in her closet, left by a man who was sharing her bed?

James took in a breath through his nose and held it, counting to five before exhaling. Natalia was an adult who could live her life as she saw fit. It would only make sense that she was involved with someone; Natalia was beautiful and amazing, graceful and intelligent. Any man would a fool to not be interested in her.

A flash of recent memory, from the depths of Cheyenne Mountain, of a blond mountain of a man in Natalia's embrace. When he'd come across Natalia holding Steve Rogers in her arms, as if such a thing had been natural to her, he really hadn't put too much thought into it beyond driving verbal knives into Steve. But the more he thought of it, when was the last time Natalia had voluntarily touched anyone when it was not part of a mission?

She had told him point-blank that she wasn't sleeping with Steve, but what if she'd lied to him, what if she was in Steve's bed when she wanted to be; she'd never want a broken-down cripple of a man now, not when she had the choice of someone like _that_ , someone big and blond and perfect.

Something broken rattled around inside his head when he thought about Steve, and he wanted to lash out, to hit somebody (falling) and he didn't know why.

James breathed through the panic, though the sudden cold fear in his guts. He should never have come here. He had to leave.

He would tell Natalia that he needed his clothes back, that he was leaving. Picking up the shirt with his hand, James made his way out of the bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen.

What he saw made him stop in his tracks. Natalia was busy in the kitchen, stirring a pot with one hand and pouring water from a kettle into a mug with the other. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and her cheeks were pink from the heat and she was so damn beautiful that James forgot how to breathe.

When the mug was full, she set down the kettle. "I thought you might like some tea," she said, glancing up at him. "Sit."

Unable to find the words to explain he was leaving, James numbly walked into the kitchen and sat in the chair she indicated. In a moment, she'd placed the mug before him. She touched his right shoulder gently as she walked back to the stove.

"I know you said that you weren't hungry, but I thought you might like soup at some point," she said over her shoulder. "This just needs a few minutes to heat up."

James stared at the mug, his hand gripping the t-shirt tight on his lap. "You didn't have to do this," he said automatically.

"If you don't want it, I'll eat it," Natalia said. She gave the pot one last stir, then moved to the sink. "Turn around, I need to wash your left side."

James looked down at the shirt in his hand. Even thought he wasn't looking at her, he could hear Natalia's movements around the kitchen; the quiet step of bare feet on the tile floor, the wet sound of water sloshing in a bowl. Natalia set the bowl on the table, laid a cloth beside it, then pulled the other chair around to James' side. There she sat, and she waited.

It took James a few minutes to look at his left side, at the gaping space where his metal arm had been. He couldn't see everything, but he could see the black thread of the stitches, the skin red against the stitches. The sight of the concave gap where his metal shoulder had once been made his stomach lurch.

"How long as it been since you had any antibiotics?" Natalia asked, as she dipped the cloth into the bowl.

James looked back at the table. It took him a minute to think through the past few days. "I left the base hospital three days ago," he said.

"And didn't take any medicine with you," Natalia finished for him. She held up the wet cloth. "This might sting."

"What is it?" he asked. He stared straight ahead so he didn't have to see the cloth touch his shoulder. The warmth stung against the stitches, but there was no chemical edge.

"It's salt water." Natalia dabbed gently at his wounds. "It will help."

"Help with what?" James hissed as Natalia pressed at a sore spot on the incision. "Shit."

Natalia dipped the cloth back in the bowl, wrung most of the liquid out, and started again. "You're lucky that you didn't get an infection on the bus."

James shook his head. "I never get sick."

"There's a difference between catching the flu, and having an open wound get infected on a bus." She spoke in a quiet voice, non-threatening, but James felt the bite of her meaning.

He made himself sit still. The thing was, Natalia wasn't wrong. He'd seen people fall to infection in the War, in countless places since that bloodbath. He swallowed his immediate retort, _what would it matter, they already took my arm off_. But he didn't have anything else to say, so the silence between them sat, heavy in the room.

Natalia re-wet the cloth twice more to bathe his shoulder, then stood to empty the bowl into the sink. The room was quiet, the only sounds the soft bubbling of the soup on the stove, the soft drip-drip as the sink drained. James tried to say something, anything, but the words sat thick in his throat.

After a minute, Natalia came back to the table. She sat in the chair at his side, hitching it closer to him, so close but not touching.

"I thought about you when I was in Chicago," she said quietly. "Wondering how you were, what you were doing."

"I wasn't doing much of anything." James forced himself to unclench his hand from the t-shirt in his lap. He reached for the mug of tea, took a sip. The liquid was cooling and bitter. "Lying around a lot."

Natalia put her hand on his knee. "Why did you leave? I told you I would come back."

James gulped down the rest of the tea. The bitterness lingered on his tongue. "I couldn't stay there any more, Talia, I couldn't. Just… the smell, you know?"

Hospitals didn't smell the same as when he had been a kid; the disinfectant wasn't as harsh, the sheets didn't smell of so much bleach, but there was only so much that could be done. Bandages smelled the same, the iodine stench and the body odors of men in various stages of healing.

"As soon as they moved me up to the base hospital on the surface, I just took off. No big deal."

Natalia squeezed his leg gently. "With no antibiotics, and someone else's clothing." It was not a question. "Did you take any painkillers?"

James pushed his hair back from his face. "You know hospitals, they keep the narcotics locked down. I bought some Tylenol at a drug store on the way to the bus station."

Natalia rose to her feet. She paused behind James and rested her hands on both sides of his neck. "That is the stupidest thing I have heard in months," she murmured, kissing the top of his head.

"That's not even the stupidest thing I've done all week," he said, and felt her smile against his hair.

"I won't argue with that." She kissed his head again, then walked across the kitchen to the stove. She spooned some liquid into a bowl and carried it back to the table.

James tasted the soup; it was salty and the vegetables were mushy, but there were bits of meat, probably chicken. The rumbling of his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten in a full day, and he tucked in.

Natalia moved around the kitchen, moving things here and there, refilling his mug with hot water, pouring the rest of the soup into another bowl. She returned to the table and sipped at her soup.

"You made this?" James asked between bites.

"Clint did," Natalia responded. "He's good at anything you can freeze for later."

James didn't slow down in eating as he thought about the intelligence he'd gathered on the people who lived in Stark Tower. Clint Barton was a SHIELD agent, the one with the bow. There had been some amazing footage of the man driving off the Chitauri attack with only a handful of arrows. "I've heard about him," James said. He scraped the last of the soup off the sides of the bowl. "Is he as good with that bow as people say?"

Natalia raised her eyebrows. "He's better," she said. She pushed her half-full bowl under James' spoon. "I owe him a great deal."

"You work together, you two?" James asked, hesitating only a moment before starting on the second bowl of soup. "Outside this Avengers stuff?"

"Yes." Natalia took the crumpled t-shirt off James' lap and smoothed out the wrinkles. "For several years." She picked at a loose thread on the shirt's collar. "He went with Coulson, to see if the Tok'ra can get the alien out of his head."

James' hand hesitated over the soup bowl. With the mess in his head over Steve, he'd managed, for a few minutes, to forget the man who had ripped off his arm. Tightening his grip on the spoon, he made himself continue eating as if his insides hadn't clenched up at the memory. "How's that going?"

"They have only been gone for a few days," Natalia told him. She pushed the t-shirt across the table to him. "You should put this on before you get cold."

James stared at it. If the thing was Steve's shirt, he didn't want it anywhere near him. But then, he really didn't want to explain that to Natalia.

He dropped the spoon in the bowl and reached for the ball of fabric. Unlike the button-up shirt he'd stolen from the base hospital, this one had to go over his head.

Natalia was watching him. He couldn't fumble, couldn't make a mistake, couldn't let her see how useless he was.

Faint shards of memory came to him, of trying to dress himself while his metal arm had been disabled; of pulling a shirt on over his head with a dead-weight left arm. The trick there had been to get both arms through the sleeves, then pull it over his head. Without a metal arm to wrestle with, he should be able to pull the shirt on without fumbling.

Natalia was watching him. He couldn't make a mistake.

He slid his hand through the shirt, seeking the open sleeve. His hand slid through the sleeve, and he shimmied his arm up and through the sleeve until he could work the collar over his head. The shirt didn't catch, didn't fall, and he quickly pulled the shirt down his torso.

The empty sleeve brushed the stitches on his shoulder, but that irritation was minor compared to the sandpaper rubbing of the stiff bandage on the bus.

Natalia took a sip of James' tea, not saying anything. He sat back in the chair, trying to regain his breath. Why did he feel such a sense of accomplishment? The emotion was quickly squashed by a wave of humiliation. If putting on a shirt by himself was the best he could do, he should have gotten off that bus in Nebraska and just kept walking until he fell over and the coyotes ate him.

Natalia stood quietly. "I'm going to make coffee," she said, as if she hadn't just witnessed the most pathetic thing ever. "Do you want some, or will you have tea?"

James rubbed his hand over his face, intensely grateful that Natalia's back was to him. The humiliation wormed its way into his gut, hotter and sharp as a bullet.

What kind of man was he now?

But Natalia had asked him a question, and if he didn't answer she was going to turn around. "Tea's fine," he said, his voice sounding weak in his own ears.

Natalia made a soft sound of assent and busied herself at the counter. After a long moment, James picked up the spoon and resumed eating. Only now, the soup was cold, and his stomach roiled with emotion. He put the spoon back down and pushed the bowl away.

Natalia glanced over her shoulder at the sound, and James reached for anything to distract her. "So who do I have to thank for the clothes?" he asked, plucking at the worn t-shirt.

"They're Clint's," Natalia said with a faint smile. "I borrowed them from him after an operation five years ago and never gave them back."

James' entire preconceptions twisted and hawed. Clint Barton. He'd suspected that Natalia and the man had been intimate; not all partners in this line of work ended up in bed together, but it happened more often than not.

But the rooms he'd seen were a woman's space, displaying Natalia's personality alone. He shifted in the chair. "So you and Barton are…"

Natalia's eyebrow went up. "He and I _were_ ," she said, stressing the last word. She returned to the table with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.

The wave of relief that ran through James' body was a physical thing. The clothes weren't Steve's; Natalia and Steve weren't... He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "He's a good guy?" James asked, rubbing his hand against the borrowed sweatpants.

"He is a good guy," Natalia said, settling in the chair. "Do you think I would have been with him otherwise?"

The question was arch; James supposed he deserved that. He reached for his tea. The cup was cooling, but he didn't feel like asking Natalia for more hot water.

Natalia watched him for a few minutes, then set her cup on the table. "Are you ready now?" she asked.

"For what?" he asked with a frown.

"For me to call John and explain to him that you're in my kitchen?"

James shrugged. "You can do whatever you want," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. "He's your son."

Natalia's stare grew distinctly frosty. "And yours," she said. "And as of last week, he is your commanding officer."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure he's a busy man," James said. Anger and apprehension churned in his gut. He should have just kept running.

"What did you think was going to happen when you got here?" Natalia asked. She reached for James' arm, but he pulled away. "What were you going to do, James, just keep going?"

"What the hell do I have to go back to?" he demanded. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up so fast that grey streamers swam in his vision. He put his hand out to steady himself, catching the edge of the table in time to stay on his feet.

_Don't fall, don't fucking fall!_ James screamed at himself, willing himself with every shred of dignity he had left to stay upright. After a horrible moment, in which he couldn't tell which way was up, the floor righted itself under his feet. He hadn't fallen, hadn't added another layer of humiliation to his day. James focused on breathing, on standing, on the pressure on his palm where he gripped the table edge tight.

Finally, he let go of the table and straightened his back. Breathing through his nose, he looked around. Natalia was still seated, her face expressionless. But James could see her fingers were white where they clutched at the cup; the coffee spilled on the table.

She blinked at him. "If you're planning on running, tell me now," she said, her voice quiet.

James looked down at his palm. Red lines had been pressed into his skin from the edge of the table. "I'm not running," he said after a minute. "I… I needed to see you."

And he remembered Isis's words from that killing floor in Texas, taunting him that he had never been able to stay away from Natalia.

The memory of the words brought back more, so much more, of the agony of having his arm torn off, the unrelenting cold of slowly bleeding to death, alone on the floor after Natalia left him to track down Isis.

He didn't remember what happened after that.

He sank back into his chair, clenching his hand tight. The memories of that room were thick in his head; the stench of cooling blood, the dry dust of the concrete. If he had died there, that would have been the last thing he remembered. Being in that cold, alone.

(Falling.)

"If you're not running, then I need to call John," Natalia said. "Let him know that you're all right."

James stared at the tabletop. _All right_ was a generous interpretation of how he was feeling, but he wasn't going to tell that to Natalia.

"Did you hurt anyone on your way out of the hospital?" she asked, her voice still calm.

James' head jerked up. "No," he asked, not sure why she would assume that level of violence of him. "I forged some release notes on my chart, took some supplies from the locker room and took off. That's it."

Natalia pursed her lips. "I can make that work," she said as she put her hand on his arm. "Follow my lead."

James watched as Natalia pulled a mobile phone from her pocket, dialled a number, then laid the phone on the table, touching the speakerphone button on the screen. The ringer sound was loud in the quiet kitchen.

"Natasha?" John Sheppard's voice came clear through the connection. "Hi. Why are you calling?"

Natalia raised her eyebrow. "It's good to hear from you too, John," she said. Her voice was warmer than James had expected it to be – usually, during an operation, she spoke in low and measured tones, always thinking seven steps ahead. But this voice… this was not a voice James was used to hearing her use with other people.

This was the voice she used when she felt safe.

"It's not that," Sheppard said quickly. In contrast to his mother, he sounded harried. "It's just, well, there's been a little complication."

Natalia put her hand on James' wrist, squeezing gently. He took it as a warning to stay quiet. "Did something happen with Coulson?" Natalia asked.

"What? No, far as we know that's all fine," Sheppard said. There was a scuffing noise and muffled voices for a few seconds. "We shipped Coulson off to the Tok'ra with Barton and Thor as his escorts five days ago," Sheppard said when he came back on the line.

The set of Natalia's shoulders relaxed slightly. "So what seems to be the complication?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then Sheppard said, "Wait a goddamn second, is Barnes with you?"

"He arrived at Stark Tower an hour ago," Natalia said.

"In one piece?" Sheppard let out a muffled curse. "Fuck. I didn't know he was missing until Captain Rogers showed up looking for him this afternoon."

At the mention of Steve's name, James sat upright. Natalia's hand tightened on his wrist. "How did you not know he was missing?" she asked.

"Well, I've been a little busy dealing with Isis," John said. "There was a mix-up with his transfer and no one on the surface thought to be too alarmed when they saw the release notes on his chart. Three days later and I'm just hearing about this now, Jesus Christ."

"He came straight to New York," Natalia said. "Would you like to speak with him?"

"Yeah," Sheppard said, and now there was that iron James remembered creeping back into his voice. "That would be a good idea."

Natalia patted James' hand. He cleared his throat. "Colonel Sheppard," he said. "How's the weather in Colorado Springs?"

"We've had some rain, which you'd know if you'd stuck around in the base hospital like you were supposed to," Sheppard said. "You know, Sergeant, I get that it's been seventy years, but that whole thing about needing to ask permission to leave the base is still a thing we do in the military."

"Sorry about that," James said, then tacked on a "Sir," in the least sarcastic voice he could muster. "I figured that since I was just going to lie around for a few days, I could do that here."

"In New York," Sheppard clarified. "What did you do, walk?"

"Took the bus. Sir."

Sheppard sighed. "Sgt. Barnes, were you this much of a pain in the ass back in the War?"

James managed to smile at that. "Of course not, sir." Natalia rolled her eyes at him.

"So glad to hear that," Sheppard snapped. "Okay, here's a direct order for you – you stay put in Stark Tower. Consider yourself in the custody of SHIELD, courtesy of Agent Romanoff, until I personally come to get you, do you understand?"

"Yessir," James said promptly, but he didn't really understand why Sheppard was being so lenient. A derelict soldier, even one who hadn't spent decades being used by the other side, should have been taken back into military custody at once.

Given his history, James wasn't sure why Sheppard didn't already have the MPs there, slapping him in irons.

"Don't 'yessir' me, you're not the one who has to go talk down Captain America from forming search parties to go out into the hills," Sheppard said. "I mean it, Sergeant. If you start running again, the only option left is for me to lock you up."

"I get it," James said, slumping back in his chair. Like he had anywhere else to go.

"Now let me speak with Agent Romanoff, and take me off speakerphone, I can hear the echo."

Natalia picked up the phone and pressed the button before holding the phone to her ear. "Yes, John?" She listened for a few moments. "He's not running a fever or showing any signs of infection, but he's in pretty rough shape."

James rested his elbow on the table and propped up his chin with his hand. With every passing minute, everything seemed to be getting heavier. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"He's human, John, he needs time to heal."

James rubbed his eyes, trying to pay attention to the conversation. While he couldn't hear Sheppard's voice, he could just imagine what the man was saying.

"No. That is not a good idea—Because I know him, John, and I know what he needs." Natalia's voice was rising, enough to startle James into opening his eyes. "He's not going to a military hospital, he stays with me. End of discussion."

She put her free hand on James' thigh, shifting her chair closer to him. He leaned into the contact, unable to resist pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Fine," she said. "We'll see you tomorrow. Goodbye, John." She took the phone from her ear and ended the call.

"What's happening?" James asked. He slid his arm around her shoulders to rest his weight on her.

"He's going to fly out tomorrow with one of their physicians to make sure that you're not dying," Natalia said. She drank the remainder of the coffee in her cup, then stood, hauling James to his feet with her hand on his arm. "He's going to run interference with Steve tonight."

"Why's Rogers in Colorado Springs?" James asked, letting Natalia manhandle him out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom. "Stark said he was in Chicago."

"After the mission ended this morning, Steve said he had something to do and took off," Natalia said. "I didn't know he was going to Colorado."

"Why is he there?" James asked again. He was missing something, he knew, but what it was kept eluding him.

Natalia propped him up against the wall and went to turn down the bed. "I guess he went to Colorado Springs is because that's where you were," she said. She guided James to the bed and helped him under the covers.

"Why would he do that?" James asked, then gasped as the bruises on his back and side pressed down against the mattress.

Natalia sat beside him on the bed, brushing his hair back from his forehead with gentle fingers. "Because you are Steve's best friend," she said quietly. "Steve lost you once and I don't think he'll let that happen again."

Something sharp and ugly rattled around inside James' head when he thought about Steve, and he didn't know why. "Yeah, well, things change," he muttered, shifting onto his right side.

Natalia got to her feet and left the room. By the time that James realized she was gone, she was back, holding a glass of water and two small bottles. She sat on the edge of the bed and set the glass on the bedside table. "Which do you want?" she asked, holding up the bottles for him to see. Medicine bottles. "Tylenol or Percocet."

James wasn't up on his modern pharmacopoeia, but he was pretty sure that Percocet was some kind of narcotic. He reached for the Tylenol. "You don't have any vodka around here?" he asked as he opened the bottle after a few fumbled one-handed attempts.

"That kind of pain killer won't help," Natalia said. She waited until he had two pills in his hand before taking the bottle away. "You don't normally drink when you're hurt."

James popped the pills in his mouth and cracked them with his teeth before swallowing them down with the help of the water. Once he was sure the pills wouldn't come back up, he lay down and said, "First time for everything, sweetheart."

Into his head came faint snippets of memory, of being drunk as a young man, getting into fights with the neighborhood boys on Saturday nights, of the hangovers in Mass the next Sundays. He remembered how easy alcohol made things, back then.

That's why he'd stopped drinking. Because of how easy things could be.

There hadn't been much opportunity for the Winter Soldier to drink. When he was on a mission, he refused to let himself be distracted, and for as long as he could remember, he had been on a mission. Even daily life in Department X had been one long, deadly mission.

Another memory. Summer on the steppe, up in the rocky hills above the Department X compound. He was stretched out in the sun, reading the propaganda papers aloud while someone listened. Someone wearing his jacket, smoking his cigarettes, sharing a small flask of harsh vodka.

He wondered who that person had been.

James opened his eyes. Natalia was gone from his side, and the space where she had sat was cold to the touch. Heart pounding, James sat up. She wasn't there. Where had she gone?

The door between the bedroom and the bathroom opened, and Natalia came back into the room. She had changed into a t-shirt and underwear. She closed the door behind her. "What woke you?" she asked. She turned on a small lamp on the desk, before turning off the overhead light.

James could only stare at her, waiting for his heart rate to slow, for the sudden anxiety and fear to leave him.

Natalia crawled over him onto the bed. "Come on, lie down," she said, easing James onto his side and pulling the blankets over them both. "Back to sleep."

"I was sleeping?" James mumbled, everything thick and slow in his head.

"You fell asleep three hours ago," Natalia said, curling up behind him. She was so warm against him that he nearly gasped at the sensation. "It's all right, I've got you."

James stared at the far wall, cast in shadows from the dim light. His eyelids were so heavy, but something was hiding in the back of his mind, something that he needed to pay attention to, something he needed to remember…

(Falling.)

(A blade in his chest. Falling)

He couldn't remember.

He was so tired.

Natalia kissed the back of his neck, her breath warm on his skin.

He just couldn't _remember_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Note about subject matter_ : If you haven't read [_Baba Yaga's Children_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1004733), I do begin to start referencing issues in this story.

* * *

Blood.

Screaming.

Burning.

Death.

He ran, trying to get away, but his feet sank into the muck; blood and flesh ground into the dirt, severed body parts reaching for him.

A hand grabbed his leg and he fell, landing heavily. He blinked, looked down to see a dead little girl, hardly more than a baby, her skull half-missing, with hair and bone and bloodied brains thick on the ground. He gagged and fought, but hands held him down as the dead turned on him, reached for him, to rip him to pieces in vengeance.

He screamed, screamed, fighting as they tore his left arm from his body, the fleshy stump raw and spurting blood. Claws dug into his right arm, his legs, and he fought for his life in the suffocating darkness.

Someone was shouting for a soldier. He tried to get away, but there was someone else with him in the darkness, someone holding him with sharp fingers and he lashed out, kicking hard. His foot hit living human flesh and the calling words turned into a cry of pain. He clawed his way up, pushing with his right arm and reaching for a weapon with his left but there was nothing there and he fell backwards into nothing (falling _falling **falling**_ ).

His head slammed against something sharp as gravity pulled him down. The shock of the impact doubled when he landed hard on a cold surface.

His head was full of white noise and he couldn't focus in the darkness. All he knew was that he was under attack, and someone wouldn't stop screaming.

"Jarvis, lights!" someone else yelled, and the words didn't make any sense, nothing made any sense he couldn't think _couldn't think_.

The room suddenly blazed with light, so bright and intense that it burned his eyes. He flung up his arm as the screaming faltered, choked in his throat.

"Soldier, look at me!"

The words, an order, sliced through the white burning in his head. He scrambled backwards on the floor until he slammed into a wall.

"Soldier!"

He blinked. There was someone else in the room. He blinked again, trying to focus his eyes.

A woman. Long red hair, eyes wide, hands open and empty.

He blinked again. She was crouched on the floor by the bed, hands outstretched, staring at him.

For a terrifying moment, he didn't know her name, didn't know his own name, didn't know anything. Then slowly, the waking world slotted itself back together, piece by piece.

The woman was Natalia, and he was the soldier.

But no, he wasn't the soldier, he had a name. It took him an even longer moment to drag _James_ out of the depths of his mind. _James. I'm James._

But even that didn't feel right in his head, not complete.

He reached out with his left arm to steady himself, but there was nothing there, just an empty space where his arm should be, and that pulled him right back into that dark bloody field, the pull of mud at his feet and the stench of burning human flesh and a dead little girl. Bile rose in his throat as he gagged, the sensation of his stomach turning over enough to drag him back to reality.

He staggered to his feet, pushed past Natalia and went through the door into the bathroom. He fell to his knees beside the toilet just as his gut heaved again, this time bringing up the contents of his stomach. He vomited up everything he'd eaten for dinner as the memories from his dream clawed at him, the blood, the decay, the burning, all thick in his throat and his head and he couldn't stop. When he had nothing left to throw up, dry heaves wracked his body as he bent over the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

He didn't notice exactly when Natalia appeared at his side, but dimly he registered her hand on his back. When the heaving finally stopped, he rested his forehead on the cold porcelain and wished, not for the first time, that everything would all just _stop_.

Natalia helped him sit up, propping him against the wall. He couldn't move, only watch her moving around the room, unable to move or think.

Natalia wet a hand towel, then knelt beside him and pressed the towel into his hand. He wiped his face with the wet cloth for a few moments before giving up. His mouth tasted of bile and stomach acid and even thinking about it was enough to send him back to the toilet for another round of dry heaving.

When the bout finally ceased, he pushed himself away from the toilet. His head pounded with every heartbeat, gradually coalescing into a sharp, stabbing pain behind his left temple. He touched the spot carefully, wincing at the pain. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were wet with blood.

"I'll clean it up," Natalia said in a quiet voice. It took him a minute to realize that she was speaking in English. "Here, drink this."

He took the glass from her hand and drank blindly. The cold water was clean on his tongue, sliding down his abused throat to his stomach. The glass was empty before his thirst was slaked, but he would not let his body control him. Not when he was awake.

Natalia sat beside him on the tile floor in the harshly lit room. He wasn't able to look directly at her, not yet. She was too bright, too colorful, too alive.

"This is going to sting," she warned him. He closed his eyes, steeling himself for the pain, but her fingers were gentle on his scalp, as she pushed his hair to the side. The press of wet fabric to his head did sting, but the pain was minor compared with the throbbing along his left side. He must have landed on his left shoulder when he fell off the bed.

"Did…" He cleared his throat. "Did the stitches split?"

The pressure left his head, and he could feel the soft shift of fabric as Natalia moved the empty sleeve to the side.

"Just one." The fabric moved again. "But there isn't a lot of bleeding. You're healing well."

"For all the good it will do." He made himself open his eyes. Natalia was practically sitting in his lap, her body mere inches from his. She returned his look, her eyes very green in this white room.

"You need more sleep, that's all," she said, touching his cheek.

The last thing he wanted was sleep, not when dreams chased him down, pulling him back into atrocities half-remembered. He shook his head, then stilled as the painful throbbing returned in his head.

"Let me finish." This time, he watched as she wet a gauze square with liquid from a small bottle. He let out a hiss as the gauze touched his head, the liquid stinging his opened scalp.

A soft sound, like an apologetic cough, made him look around sharply. He had thought they were alone in the apartment. He didn't understand why Natalia didn't appear surprised. "Yes, Jarvis?" Natalia said evenly.

"Will you be needing any assistance, Agent Romanoff?" came the smooth English voice.

"No, thank you," Natalia said. "Have a good night, Jarvis."

The voice did not respond.

"Has that thing been listening?" James demanded, catching Natalia's wrist. "To everything that's happening in here?"

Natalia put down the gauze. "He turned on the lights when I asked him to, that's all." She squeezed his hand. "Listen to me. Jarvis doesn't listen in, he doesn't watch me. He only activates in this room when I call his name. Do you understand?"

"But how does he know if he's not watching?" James demanded. His heart pounded at the thought of being monitored, of being watched. It was only a small step from _watched_ to _controlled_ , and he wasn't going to let that happen to him, not again. Never again.

"He does," Natalia said. "Do you think that I would let someone watch me like that? After everything I grew up with in Department X?"

She said the last bit in Russian, nearly spitting the program's name. James shook his head, mindless of the pain. "He's not watching you," James said, more to himself than to Natalia. "But how do you get his attention?"

"I call for him." Natalia gathered up the bloodied gauze. "That's all."

She stood, moving to discard the used cloth in the small bin, putting everything back in place before washing her hands. James sat propped against the wall. Everything was quiet in the small room; he could hear his own heart beating in time with the throbbing in his head and shoulder.

Everything was so calm, so surreal, that for a few moments he wondered if he were really awake. What if this was just another part of the nightmare, being trapped in the small white room, with people watching him from every corner, controlling him, pulling on his strings to make him dance?

He drew his legs up to his chest, ignoring the press against his bruises. He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't in Department X any longer. This wasn't some new brainwashing strategy, making him think he was safe with Natalia until it was time to turn the knife, rip away the safety and turn it back into pain.

There were very few things he trusted in this world, but he trusted Natalia. She would never hurt him, never turn him over for torture.

Maybe, one day, he could actually believe that she loved him.

Natalia was drying her hands on a large towel, her back to him. James rested his head on the wall and just looked at her, full of color and life in this impersonal white room. Her long red hair hung down her back, mussed from her interrupted sleep. The shirt she slept in was a faded blue, slightly loose around the stomach but tight across her breasts, which shifted unbound as she moved.

Watching Natalia had always fascinated him. She had developed rather late, much to the annoyance of the program directors in the Red Room, but James could remember the first time he had looked at Natalia as a woman, rather than the young girl he taught to aim a rifle. He was fresh out of stasis and she was on the training floor, taking down an opponent much larger than she; her hair up off her face and her face red with exertion as she fought. When she knocked her opponent unconscious, he realized that one day, she would be beautiful.

That had been a very long time ago.

She turned, her bare legs carrying her across the floor to crouch before him. "Are you ready for bed?"

He wasn't, not really, but he let her help him to his feet. It was just as well, as once he was upright the blood rushed out of his head and everything greyed out.

He came back to himself slowly, standing on that bathroom floor, his arm over Natalia's shoulders, her arms holding him upright. He balled his fist up in Natalia's shirt, breathing hard.

"Come on," was all Natalia said, turning him towards the door.

The bedroom was a mess, with a lamp knocked over and books and knick-knacks strewn across the floor. Natalia helped James into bed and straightened the sheets around him. He lay back and let her fuss, too tired and too angry with himself to be bothered.

"Do you want some more water?" she asked.

"Yeah," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. Here, in the bed, his nightmare came back; the butchery alive in his mind's eye. He couldn't remember if that had been real, or just some imagined torture his mind cooked up for him.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Natalia came back into the room and put the glass on the bedside table. "Do you want anything else?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He wanted his arm back. He wanted his memories back, or maybe gone forever, taking the horrors away from him. He wanted to go to sleep forever. But he swallowed all of these things and reached for her, sliding his hand over her thigh. "Come to bed," he said.

Natalia smiled at him. "Sounds good." She turned on the bedside lamp, then crawled under the covers to curl up along his right side.

She was warm and soft, her breasts pressed against his chest, and when she slid her leg over his, her thigh brushing against his groin, his body didn't respond in the least.

"Sleep well," she whispered, snuggling close to him.

He couldn't say anything. He closed his eyes against the humiliation burning through his body. He was in bed with the most beautiful woman in the world, and his dick hadn't even twitched. Not only was he disfigured, but he couldn't even get it up for his woman.

Hot tears pricked in the corner of his eyes as he fought to keep breathing. This couldn't be happening. As far back as he could remember, no matter how injured he'd been, he'd always been able to respond physically to Natalia. But not any more.

What good was he? What kind of man was he now?

* * *

The next time James woke, the room was bright, and the inside of his mouth tasted like a street gutter.

He blinked for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling. Muddled echoes of his dreams ran through his head. He didn't remember much, just that there had been a child, and blood. He didn't remember whose blood it had been, nor what he had done to the child.

All he did know was that the child was a girl, and she had been so very young.

Expanding his senses, James realized that he was alone in the bed. Even though Natalia was no longer there, he could still smell her scent, the soft floral notes of her soap and that stuff she used on her hair, and underneath that lingered a trace of _her_.

He had spent so long in running to her, and now he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

As his mind roused itself, he could look back over the past week with a clearer head. Exhaustion and pain had made him nearly drunk the day before. It was a wonder Natalia hadn't taken one look at him and thrown him out onto the street.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound from somewhere in the room. He turned his head to see Natalia curled up in the oversized armchair in the corner, a tablet computer on her lap. She glanced up when he moved, and the smile she gave him knocked all sense clean out of his head. "Good morning," she said.

Carefully, to avoid a humiliating repeat of the previous day's black-out, James sat up in bed. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Nearly eleven," she told him, setting her computer aside. "How do you feel?"

He scratched his chin, the stubble grown enough now to be considered a beard. He hadn't been able to shave in a week. "Like I need a barber."

She smiled at that, coming over to sit on the bed. "John said he would be leaving Colorado around ten his time. We have two hours until he gets here."

Bringing Steve Rogers with him, James thought grimly. He kept that thought to himself. "Just enough time for a stroll around Central Park," he said, and was relieved when Natalia smiled at him again.

"How does your head feel?" she asked.

"Like it hit something sharp," he said. He reached for the glass of water and drank to try to clear his mouth. "It's fine."

Natalia put her hand on his leg, her fingers warm through the thin fabric. "I'm glad you're here," she said quietly.

He put the empty glass on the side table and looked at Natalia for a long moment, trying to decipher if she really meant that, if she was glad he'd dropped on her doorstep in his wrecked condition.

He hoped she meant it, because it was the only thing keeping him sane at this point.

He caught up her hand, brought it to his lips. "Me too," he said, and kissed her fingers one by one.

With a smile, Natalia leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose, making him smile in spite of himself. Then she kissed him on the forehead as she slipped into his embrace.

He wrapped his arm around her, holding her too tight as he pulled her onto his lap, but she made no sound of protest. She just stroked his back as he breathed through the sudden anxiety, that this was all a trick, a trap, that Isis still had him, that this was one more of the Soviets' tricks, that Natalia wasn't really with him, that she was dead or worse, taken by the Goa'uld and it was all his fault—

The increasingly disjointed stream of thought was interrupted by a faint knocking. Natalia pulled back from their embrace and looked towards the bedroom door.

"Expecting company?" James asked.

"Not exactly," she said as she slipped to her feet. "I'll be right back."

There was nothing about her that indicated she expected a trap, but James didn't want to let her out of his sight. As Natalia went through the door, James was pushing the blanket back from the bed. He took a deep breath as he stood, feet braced against another black-out, but the world only spun for a few moments before righting itself on its own. An improvement over the day before, to be sure.

He heard voices as he walked across the room to the hall. Natalia stood in the apartment's doorway, holding the door for one of the men James had met the previous evening. Bruce Banner.

"I wanted to see how things were going," Dr. Banner was saying to Natalia. The man held an armful of folded clothing, with some items on top that James couldn't make out at this distance. "And drop off some things for your guest."

"You know you're welcome any time, Bruce," Natalia told him as she closed the apartment door. "James, do you remember Dr. Banner?"

Did she really think he'd been that far gone the previous night? James nodded as he shuffled his way over to the living room's large couch. "Sorry if I caused any problems, Doc," James said. He kept his voice calm and cool, speaking in the generic American broadcaster English he used whenever regional accents could cause complication. He'd save the Brooklyn drawl for John Sheppard.

"No problem," Dr. Banner said easily. "And call me Bruce. Natasha does."

There was something underlying the man's words. James wondered what Natalia had told them, about him.

"I thought you could use some clothes and supplies, until you get settled in," Bruce went on. He held out the armful to James.

Natalia made a move to take the items from Bruce, but James could not allow that. He was strong enough to hold a pair of pants. It took him four quick steps to close the distance, and he was reaching out to take the things. Only it wasn't like it used to be at all. Before, James had two hands, one flesh and one metal, to pick up and carry objects. Now, if he tried to take the clothing in his hand, the items on top of the pile would fall to the ground.

Bruce solved the problem without even seeming to see James' dilemma. He half-folded the cloth around the other items and placed the centre of weight on James' arm, letting go as James shuffled the bundle into the crook of his arm. "Thanks for this," James said. He'd examine the items later, when the unfamiliar man was out of the room. Even if Natalia called Bruce Banner her friend, the man was still a variable.

A large, green variable.

Bruce shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I know what it's like to travel light," was his response.

Natalia slipped around Bruce to James' side. She flipped the cloth back and poked at the objects there. "Shampoo and an electric razor," she observed.

"Just in case," Bruce said. "I didn't know if you'd have anything like that down here."

"What, you didn't think James would want his hair smelling like honeysuckle extract?" The corner of Natalia's mouth twitched up. "Thank you for coming down, Bruce."

"Yes, thank you," James said before Natalia could say anymore. "I could stand a shave."

Bruce looked at James in a way that James couldn't quite put his finger on. "I just wanted to drop down. Tony said to say hello, as well."

"How very… restrained, of him," Natalia said. "If he wants to come poking around later, John's going to be here at noon, bringing Steve with him."

Bruce smiled. "I'll let Tony know." He gave James a nod as he made his way across the room, and out the apartment door.

James ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking. "I get the feeling that man doesn't like me all that much."

Natalia squeezed his arm. "He can be reserved around new people," she told James. "But he sees a lot more than most people realize."

"How's his, uh…" James raised his eyebrows. "Temper."

Natalia shook her head. "Whatever intel you saw on his temperament is wrong. Bruce Banner has an extremely good grasp on his temper."

James considered this. "Always?"

Natalia leaned against James' side, looking up at him with wide eyes. "We all get angry sometimes," she said.

"That we do." He wanted to kiss her, to take her back to bed and hide under the covers forever, just him and her. But that wasn't possible, not with James' new military commander going to arrive in a couple of hours, with Steve bloody Rogers on his heels. James sighed, pulling himself together. "I should go clean up."

"All right." Natalia reached up to touch his forehead, masking the gesture by pushing his hair back from his face. "Do you want company?"

Company in the shower was exactly what James didn't want. He didn't want Natalia having to see his ruined body in the cold light of day. Or ever. "I don't want to keep you from your day," he said.

"You're not," Natalia insisted. She examined his face for a few seconds before continuing, "But there are some phone calls I should probably make before John gets here."

James wasn't sure if she was humoring him or if she really had business to attend, but he was so relieved that she wasn't going to fight him on this that he didn't care. "I don't want to keep you."

Natalia went up on her toes to kiss him on the lips. "You're not keeping me from anything," she whispered in his ear before stepping away. "There's some porridge on the stove ," she said as she walked across the room. "And food in the fridge. You can have Jarvis call me if you need anything."

James would rather bleed to death on the floor than ask Jarvis for help, but he wasn't going to say anything like that to Natalia. "Where are you going?" he asked when Natalia had her hand on the apartment's door knob.

She turned to him. "There's a secure phone line in Clint's apartment I can use," she said. "It's SHIELD business."

And, James deduced, none of his. That made sense; she'd already been suspended once because of his interference. Not involving him in her business was understandable. Not that he would let that keep him from learning what she was doing, if he truly wanted to know. But for now, he could let it go. "I'll be here."

Her smile was blinding, warm and real and just for him. "I'm counting on it," she said, and then she was out the door.

James let out his breath slowly. He'd known Natalia for so very long, and she could still rock him back on his heels with a smile alone.

But now, he was alone in the apartment. Watching where he stepped, he made his way to the bedroom. He dropped his armful onto the rumpled bed and gathered up the electric razor and the shampoo bottle after a few false starts. He carried those into the bathroom and closed both doors.

His reflection did nothing to improve his mood. The man staring back at him was pale, dark circles under his eyes. The missing arm pushed his appearance from decrepit to grotesque, and that was with the shirt still on.

He made himself stand tall. This was what he was now. Denial was just delusion, and he had no time for that.

He was James Buchanan Barnes, and he was not going to fall over and give up.

He tucked his hair behind his ears, plugged in the electric razor, and got to work. The razor didn't give the close shave he liked, but he'd figure that out later. Once he got most of the stubble off his face, he set down the razor and undressed.

Unlike the previous night, he now knew what to expect. The bruises and scars were not a surprise. The gap where his shoulder used to be made his stomach twist into knots, but he forced himself to look at his reflection. This was what he was now.

When the nausea receded, he angled himself to see the full extent of the damage. The black stitches were tight in his skin, but the swelling of the day before had faded somewhat. The contours of the wound were still an angry red, but no fluids leaked out of the healing incisions.

Rationally, he knew this was good. No swelling or puss indicated that the chance of infection was low. He could probably use soap in the shower without worrying about the shoulder.

His head was another matter. He leaned against the counter to examine where he'd spilt open his scalp the previous night. The wound had closed up, dried blood flecks drifting to the counter as he moved his hair aside. Washing his hair in the shower would likely open the wound again, but he'd rather live with that pain than face goddamn Steve Rogers looking like a vagabond.

(Falling)

James snatched up the shampoo and stalked over to the glass-enclosed shower stall. Everything in this room, this apartment, was rich and luxurious and his skin itched when he thought about how much money had been spent on this place. He remembered all those cold-water showers in the orphanage as a kid; trying to wash with a helmet-full of tepid water near the front.

All of that had been a long time ago.

He shoved the plastic bottle onto the shower's ledge and reached for the tap, only to freeze in place. Had he heard something?

Was someone else in the apartment?

Heart pounding, he slipped out of the shower, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor. Natalia knew him too well for this; she would have announced her presence, especially since she'd told him she would be out of the apartment for some time.

He opened the door a crack. There was no hint of movement in the apartment, but how could he be sure? He thought he'd heard something.

Senses on full alert, James stepped silently into the apartment. The room was still as he padded naked to the far wall, where Natalia kept her weaponry. James drew back the concealing fabric to retrieve a knife from its wall-mounted sheath. It didn't matter if he was down one arm, he could still defend himself from an attack.

He made quick work of searching the apartment. The living room and kitchen were clear, as was the bathroom and bedroom. He paused before the closed door of the one room he hadn't seen; then, knowing he would never be able to let down his guard until he _knew_ , tried the door handle.

The room was unlocked. James pushed open the door to darkness, bracing himself against the wall in case someone rushed out of the room. When nothing happened, he slipped inside. There was no sound, no hint of life. He tried the wall next to the door, and found the light switch without much trouble.

The light overhead was bright and stark, illuminating a room filled with books and documents. Unlike Natalia's bedroom, this room was cold and impersonal. Envelopes and folders were stuffed along the shelves, old bound volumes packed in with modern binders. Along the far wall was a desk, which held a microscope, a scale, an array of precise tools. All the sorts of thing one needed for document examination.

James wondered what this place was, why Natalia would keep documents in a place like this. As far as he could tell, none of the binders held the insignia of SHIELD.

What was Natalia hiding?

Well, certainly not a person. This room was empty of life. He must have made a mistake, imagined that he heard something. There was no one else in the apartment.

He switched off the light and closed the door on the room of secrets. He felt a bit ridiculous walking naked through the apartment with a knife in his hand, but at least Natalia wasn't there to see his foolishness.

Back in the bathroom, he closed the door from the hallway, and locked both that and the door from the bedroom. He hesitated over the knife. Taking a weapon into the shower in an otherwise empty apartment was pure foolishness, the weakness of a troubled mind.

Then again, the knife itself was military-grade, its metal not prone to easy rusting. Taking it into the shower wouldn't harm it.

He didn't need a weapon in the shower. The only person who would enter the room was Natalia.

No one was coming to get him. That was just mind tricks, folly.

He wasn't in any danger.

He took the knife with him anyway.

The water flowing from the showerhead was warm and plentiful. The heat stung at his stitches faintly, but the warmth on his bruised muscles was welcome. He quickly washed himself with Natalia's soap, then braced himself as he ducked his head under the water spray.

Sure enough, the hot water on his scalp opened up the gash again, but he set his teeth against the pain. The sensation was only minor. He used the shampoo in the small bottle to lather up his hair, not wincing as the soap stung the gash.

Eventually, the shampoo was rinsed from his hair. He picked up the soap again to carefully wash his left side and shoulder. He tried hard not to think about how it felt as he ran his fingers over the incisions, the folded skin sewn up together to hide the space where his bone and muscle had been. Even touching the incision made his skin crawl, made him want to curl up and scream like a wounded animal.

But he wasn't a mindless animal. He was a man, no matter how ruined he might be. And a man did not let himself be controlled by his infirmity.

He gave his body one last rinse, running his hand over his chest and legs to get rid of any lingering soap, then gave his dick an experimental tug. Not even a twinge.

It wasn't like he was a teenager, he told himself. He didn't need to beat it off twice a day. When he was in the field, or on a mission, he could do without a release for weeks. But this was different. There was a difference between not needing to, and being unable to. For years now, whenever he and Natalia were together, they were intimate with each other.

And only a week before, James had learned that the alien thing that ripped his arm off had manipulated them into that role, had pulled the strings to put James into Natalia's bed to control her. He hadn't dealt with that revelation yet, wasn't sure what he felt about that.

But his body hadn't received the message that it was being used. All he wanted to do was to be in Natalia's bed, naked beside her, satisfying her in every way she wanted.

What good was he to her like this?

Disgusted with himself, he turned off the water. Taking the knife with him, he stepped out of the shower and dripped across the tiles to the towel rack. He dried his body, then his hair, his scalp leaving steaks of blood on Natalia's white towels.

The smear of red on the white terrycloth made James want to scream. Who had screaming nightmares and fell off the bed? How weak did someone have to be to do that? While he had encountered nightmares before, with growing frequency since he'd pried his way out of the stasis chamber in Russia months before, he'd never been so caught up in the horrors that he forgot his own name, that he'd fallen and injured himself.

(Falling)

He filled the bathtub with cold water and left the towel to soak. With determined, deliberate actions, he dressed himself in the clothing Bruce had lent him. Colonel Sheppard would arrive soon enough, and James would not let himself appear at anything less than his best before his commanding officer.

His son.

He pushed the thought away. Combing his hair one-handed was not a new experience; the metal hand, while deft with manual tasks, wasn't the one he favored for self-care. The shampooing had left a few knots in his hair, but he soon had those smoothed out. He parted his hair to let the scalp gash dry, then made his way out into the apartment.

He found a covered pot on the stove, holding some cooling porridge. Not bothering with a bowl, he pulled a spoon off the dish rack and ate standing over the stove. To his empty stomach, the porridge was the most delicious he had ever tasted; grains cooked to perfection, just a hint of salt to bring out the flavors.

He put the empty pot in the sink to soak. He contemplated boiling some water for tea, but he didn't know where Natalia kept her tea things. He settled on rinsing out a mug in the sink and filling it with tap water. After he drank enough to sate his thirst, he wandered back into the living room.

He wondered what Natalia was doing.

Heading over to the couch, James sat down, letting himself relax into the cushions. His belly was full, he wasn't thirsty, and if everything went to hell, he was three feet away from a wall of weapons in order to defend himself. Given his situation, things could be worse.

The clock read quarter past eleven. He had some time to kill before Colonel Sheppard arrived. He supposed he could go find Natalia, but if she was making sensitive calls on a secure line, she would not welcome his presence. He didn't really want to speak with anyone else in the tower, not Bruce Banner or Tony Stark or Jarvis.

Although…

James had intel on Banner and on Stark, but the reports were sparse when it came to Jarvis and Stark's other creations. James supposed it couldn't hurt to learn a bit more about Jarvis, even if the computer didn't like him all that much.

James cleared his throat. "Jarvis?" he said, feeling slightly silly.

"Yes, Sgt. Barnes?" the male voice responded instantly. "Are you in need of assistance?"

"No, I'm fine," James said quickly. The last thing he needed was the computer calling Natalia on him. "Just thought I'd say hi."

"Indeed." Never before had James heard a voice put quite so much sarcasm into one word. "Is there anything else?"

James looked around the room. "Is there any place in particular I should look when I'm talking to you?"

There was a pause. "That is not necessary," Jarvis said. Maybe it was James' imagination, but the computer didn't sound as cold as it had the day before. "I can respond to queries anywhere within the Tower."

"Anywhere?" James let out a whistle. "That's gotta be a lot of noise to sort through."

The computer made a sound, rather like it was clearing its throat. "Working with Mr. Stark, one learns to prioritize."

James couldn't help smiling at that. "Yeah, same thing with the old man. Did you ever meet Howard?"

Over the living room table, a translucent three-dimensional display appeared. It showed a picture of a man and a woman. The man was somewhat familiar to James, but he couldn't put a name to the face. "Parts of my code existed before Mr. and Mrs. Stark died in 1991," Jarvis said. "So technically, it could be said that I have met Howard Stark."

James leaned forward to examine the picture. "So that's Stark," he said to himself. The man in the picture was decades older than the faded memory James held of Howard Stark, which would make sense, considering how much time had passed. "He sure married a looker."

"Maria Stark," Jarvis said, a hint of frost returning to his voice. "She was a well-respected businesswoman and philanthropist in her own right."

"Hey, anyone who could put up with old Howard has my full and complete respect," James said, putting his hand over his heart.

The picture disappeared. "Is there anything else, Sergeant?"

James looked at the clock. Still over half an hour to kill until Colonel Sheppard would arrive. "Say, Jarvis, is there a computer or anything in this place?" James asked.

The display over the table lit up again, this time with a keyboard hovering mid-air. The cursor blinked in the search box. James let out another whistle. The technology was far beyond anything he'd ever seen. The sheer brilliance needed to create a three-dimensional interactive interface, with no apparent projectors or sensors, was beyond what James had experienced.

He reached for the keyboard. A touch onto the square of light marking a key made the letter appear on the interface. So simple.

"Did Stark create all this?" James asked as he typed out an internet address as fast as one hand would allow.

"He did," and there was a hint of pride in the computer's voice.

James added that to the growing mental dossier he was keeping on Jarvis. "This sure is something else," James said, only half paying attention as he entered a username. It took a bit of experimentation to realize that he could move the cursor on the display just by touching the spot on the display he wanted. He entered his password, and the screen changed.

"If I may enquire as to what you are doing, Sergeant?" Jarvis asked.

"Keeping an ear to the ground." He scanned down the page, reading the day's social media posts of people from around the globe. As usual, most of the posts were banal and meaningless, but he noted one of his contacts in South Africa had made another pointed ideological post about greed and global inequality. He opened another window and logged into a different website, following the threads he'd laid down months before, as a way to keep himself sane in this new world.

"You appear on social media as Jim Williams," Jarvis observed. "Your profile says that you are a twenty-nine-year-old electrician from Sacramento. It would appear from your public posting history that you like cat videos and internet memes."

"Who doesn't like cat videos?" James shot back, but his mind was already racing on to different matters. In the two weeks he had been involved in this alien business, things had progressed far beyond what he expected. If only… "How can I change this keyboard?"

A small symbol glowed on the display. James quickly checked out a few leads on the Russian and Ukrainian media, then tossed that aside and went to the Chinese-language message boards.

"What are you looking for?" Jarvis asked.

James considered keeping things to himself, but really, he'd only started tracking this particular region out of boredom. It wasn't his fight. "How much do you know about Namibia?"

"A great deal." Off the side, another display popped up, displaying the country's general statistics. "Located in the south-west region of the African continent, it is one of the least densely populated countries in the world."

James crooked a smile at the display. "See anything else interesting in there?"

A pause, then Jarvis said, "Namibia is the fourth-largest producer of uranium in the world."

Of course, any computer of Tony Stark's would focus on the potential for weapons first. James had to give Jarvis credit for that. "And diamonds, my friend," James said. "Gem quality diamonds. Never underestimate how greed can drive men to madness."

Ah. There it was. One of the posts from a few days before, someone was looking to purchase machinery used in diamond extraction. The account used the same email address as someone else who had been agreeing with the South African's ideological posts.

"Or," James continued, more to himself, "Makes mad men sane."

The apartment door clicked open. There were voices in the hall, more than just Natalia's. James looked at the display. "How do you close this stuff?" he asked Jarvis. In response, the screens vanished from view, leaving the air above the table clear. "Thanks."

He took a breath to compose himself, rising to his feet as Natalia entered the room. She was smiling, her eyes bright and her body relaxed. James was not surprised when John Sheppard followed close on Natalia's heels.

She had always had a soft spot in her heart for her son.

Immediately behind John was an unfamiliar woman, dressed in civilian clothing. And then, because that was just James' luck, Steve Rogers stood in the doorway, big shoulders blocking out all external light.

A stab of pure anger slid through James' gut. He didn't want Steve here, not when he was so weak, not _ever_. The reaction was so visceral, so immediate, that James had to push to control himself.

(A knife in his belly, twisting. Falling)

He didn't understand. He didn't remember _why_.

"James," Natalia was saying, reaching out her hand for him. There was a warning in her eyes, so James made himself suppress his own emotions. It was the same as in Department X. Never let them see emotions. Emotions could be used against you. "Did you manage to find something to keep you busy?"

Small talk, meaningless. Taking her lead, James said, "Just getting to know Jarvis a bit better." As he spoke, he stepped to Natalia's side. He was not surprised when he felt her hand rest on the small of his back.

At James' words, John cracked a smile. "Yeah, Jarvis is pretty cool." He gestured at the young woman beside him. "This is Doctor Jennifer Keller."

Of course, Natalia had said John would bring a physician with him on that day. This woman was young and pretty, but John's voice and body language held the kind of personal respect that had to be earned.

With the limited data he had, James mentally donned a professional, all-business persona. "Dr. Keller," he said in greeting, holding out his hand.

The woman awkwardly shifted the carrying case to her left hand and reached out to shake with her right. "I've heard a lot about you, Sgt. Barnes," she said.

"All good, I hope," James said, dropping her hand as he reached for her case.

"Actually, I was expecting to find you lying unconscious with a burning fever," she said, letting him take the large bag. Given the expression on her face, James suspected that was more to see if he could do it without passing out, than accepting any actual chivalry on her part.

"Not at all, ma'am." James moved to put the bag on the couch, then straightened up to look John in the eye. "Colonel."

"It's good to see you're not dead," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets. Beside him, Natalia rolled her eyes. "Look, let's save it for after the doc's checked you over. She's in town for a conference and agreed to make sure you're not going to expire in the next few days, as long as we don't make her late for the opening keynote."

"Why don't we go into the kitchen," Natalia said tactfully. "Steve?"

James clenched his teeth. So far, he'd managed to avoid looking directly at Steve, but now, with Natalia inviting him to stay rather than kicking him out, what could he do? This was Natalia's home, after all.

Steve took a few steps deeper into the room. He was taller than James, and every instinct in James' head screamed that that was wrong, that Steve was the short one, the skinny one, with enough attitude in him for four men.

This man was not James' friend.

"Bucky," Steve said, and at the word James nearly lost his composure. This man didn't get to call him that; that was a name of a different man, a different place. Most days, James was pretty sure that anything left of Bucky Barnes had died on the Soviet operating tables.

Breathe. "Captain Rogers," James said when he was able to speak without screaming. _Observe and record. Do not engage_.

"Steve," Natalia said again. "I'll make some coffee."

Steve clenched his jaw, glaring down at James, but he walked past James, past John, following Natalia into the kitchen.

John raised his eyebrows. "Okay, so we'll be in there," he said unnecessarily.

"Go, Colonel," Dr. Keller said. She shook her head as the man followed Natalia and Steve around the wall into the kitchen. "Sergeant, have a seat."

James sat on the couch and watched the doctor unpack her carrying case. She did the usual things first; listened to his heartbeat, took his temperature, looked down his throat, asked about his pain. She took his blood pressure three times, frowning each time at the results on the little dial.

"Am I getting a failing grade there, Doc?" James asked as Keller scowled at the dial.

"Your blood pressure is extremely low," she said, making a note on her small tablet. "It's not unexpected, but you're not where you should be, this long after surgery. Have you experienced any spells of unconsciousness, black-outs?"

James' first instinct was to deny everything; admitting weakness to the doctors had never ended well in Russia. But he held his tongue. He had told himself he was going to at least try to play Sheppard's game, and that meant dealing with this doctor. He cleared his throat. "A few times, if I stand up too fast," he admitted.

"Given these readings, no surprise there." Keller removed the blood pressure cuff from James' arm. "I'm going to need you to take your shirt off."

Be professional. James took a steadying breath, then pulled his shirt up over his head. He placed the shirt at his side and sat still, staring at a spot on the far wall as Keller pulled on a pair of blue gloves. He let her shift him around as she sat on the couch to examine his left side.

Keller's touch was light, but the pressure of her fingers on the swollen skin burned hot. James ground his teeth and stared at the wall, trying to ignore the voices in the kitchen, Natalia's quiet tones were nearly drowned out by the deeper male voices. It didn't matter, James told himself. Soon Steve would be out the door and James wouldn't have to think about him any more.

"When I came through the Gate this morning, and Colonel Sheppard told me that you'd been without antibiotics for four days, I was fully expecting to find you in worse shape," Keller said after a few minutes' examination. "These incisions are nearly healed and it doesn't look like there's any infection."

"You don't sound convinced," James said.

"I'm not." She reached for her carrying case. From the bag she pulled a small rectangular case. Opening it, she removed four small metallic triangles.

"What's that?" James asked, curious in spite of himself. The design was unlike anything he'd seen before. Maybe it was alien technology.

"A mobile subdermal medical imagining device," Keller told him as she pressed the small triangles, one after another, on the healing skin where his left shoulder used to be. "Back on base, we have a larger machine, but this is used in the field."

The triangles were cool against his skin. The one she'd placed directly on the incision tingled, but the sensation was not unpleasant.

"And the catch with most mobile technology like this," Keller continued, "Is that it needs someone with the ATA gene to activate it."

James faintly recalled someone talking about a special gene, down in Stargate Command, before everything went haywire. Back when he still had two arms. "The doctors said I've got that gene thing, don't I?"

Keller handed him a small black box expectantly. "That's what your file says."

James tuned the box over in his hand. The case tingled in his hand, similar to the device that John had in the underground interrogation room. "How does it work?"

Keller guided his hand to place the box on his knee. "You need to want to turn it on."

"What, like magic?" James said, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the small box began to glow. A shimmering display appeared over the box, showing a replica of his left shoulder, stitches and all.

"It's not magic, it's science," Keller said as she reached for the display. With her hands in the air over the box, she was able to move the shimmering display. "Very advanced science."

She moved the display to show below the skin, what had to be muscles and blood vessels. The blood on the display pumped in time with James' heart. "That's me?"

"A real-time subdermal scan," Keller said distractedly. "It looks like the rerouting of the blood vessels is healing well. The entire area is well-oxygenated."

James reached out to the display. Keller had zoomed in to one particular vein, which looked as if it had been stitched together. "What's that?"

"That is a delicate medical procedure," Keller said. She pulled the display back, and touched something that changed the colors. "Sewing up blood vessels that small takes skill, even with our advances in technologies. Especially given the amount of trauma your body had gone through."

The display now showed his shoulder in shades of purples and blues, with hints of green in spots. "What's this, now?"

Keller looked at James. "Are you always this curious, Sergeant?"

"It's my body, I figure I should know," James said. "Ma'am."

Keller shook her head. "I'm not surprised," she muttered, but she pointed at the display. "This tells me that you don't have any infected hotspots. That would show up as red." She indicated one of the purple sections. "This is swollen, but it's not giving any indicators of infection. You're an extremely lucky man, Sergeant."

"It's clean living," he responded as the doctor removed the metal sensors from his body. "Exercise. That kind of thing."

"It's a statistical anomaly," Keller told him. "Given the amount of debris embedded into the wound site and the nature of the injury, you should be in far worse shape."

James wasn't sure if the doctor was happy or annoyed about that.

Keller packed away the medical device. "Did you have a chance to talk to base psychiatrist before you were transferred to the surface?" she asked. "About your situation?"

James pulled his shirt on. "What's to talk about?" he asked once he had settled back on the couch.

Keller shook her head. "It's standard procedure for all wounded personnel assigned to the SGC, military or civilian," she said. "Especially in situations such as yours."

James didn't really want to hear the details of his _situation_. "Is he going to tell me anything I don't already know?"

"That is not the point."

James shrugged. His experiences in dealing with psychiatrists and mind-doctors in Department X had always been unpleasant, when he could remember them at all. He'd pass.

"Now, do you have any questions?" Keller asked.

James stared at the far wall for a moment. "Can… can you confirm a diagnosis?"

Keller looked surprised. "I can try," she said.

"Dr. Lam, back in Colorado, she said that because they had to take so much of my arm out…" He stopped, pushed away the quivering uncertainty in his lower belly. "Well, they can't put another one in place. Not like before."

He could see the answer in Keller's expression before she even said a word. He clenched his hand in his lap as a wave of raw panic and loss swept over him.

There wasn't any fixing him. He was just _broken_.

Keller leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. "Given the nature of your injury, that's not going to be possible," she said cautiously. "When the Goa'uld tore off your arm, the connecting muscles and tendons were severed. Without those, even if the surgical team didn't have to remove what was left of your humerus, there is no way to implant a weight-bearing prosthetic device."

"Why did they take the bone out?" James asked, cringing as his voice cracked on the last word. He pressed his clenched fist against his stomach and leaned forward, feeling the pressure steady against his gut.

Keller looked at the tablet on her lap. "What the Goa'uld did, it shattered the bone along its length," she said. "It was too badly damaged to save."

"They should have tried," James said, panic shifting into anger. "They should have—"

"You were dying," Keller interrupted. "You had lost so much blood and there was so much damage that the surgical team decided to do what they had to in order to save your life. Do you understand that?"

"There had to be something they could do," James said. "So I'm not—" His stomach turned over and he had to close his mouth so he wouldn't be sick all over Natalia's living room floor.

"Sergeant," Keller said, the authority in her voice causing him to sit up automatically. She might not be military, but she knew what she was doing. "If the surgical team had done anything else, you would be dead."

That might have been better, James thought bitterly, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

Keller waited for a minute, perhaps to see if he was going to carry on. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. "These are for you," she said, placing the papers on the table. "Dietary suggestions, exercises you can do based on your injuries, that sort of thing." Next, she pulled out a handful of small medicine bottles. "Given your physical, I don't want you to go back on the antibiotics, but you're going to need to be sensitive to any signs of fever."

"Doc, trust me, I've seen enough people die from infection to last me several lifetimes," James said, reaching for the papers.

Keller frowned. "I thought that infection-related in World War II were nearly non-existent."

James rubbed his hand over his eyes, wishing he didn't remember parts of his past so vividly. "I spent some time in a Nazi prison camp," he said. "There were some guys, the doctors just let them die in the cells with us."

The memory was just in flashes, sounds, the stench of bodies rotting alive. He pushed the memory away. Nothing he could do about it now.

Keller's eyes were wide. "I wasn't aware of that part of your medical history," she said in a quiet voice.

James couldn't help giving her a tired smile. "Not many old-time war vets coming across your table, huh, Doc?"

"You're my first," Keller said. She handed him two small bottles. "For the pain. Take one white pill every fours hours if you need it. Take one yellow pill every eight hours if the pain isn't managed with the white ones."

James set the bottles down without looking closer. He'd check them out later, when he could afford to have his head muddled by drugs. "Anything else?"

"Do you have anything to tell me?"

James shook his head. He wasn't going to bring up the previous night's fall. Besides, his head hardly hurt at all any more.

"Any other questions?"

James shrugged. "Maybe, um…"

Keller waited.

"You know, Natasha and I, we're together," he said, fumbling around for a way to ask his question. "It's just, with everything, I'm not finding that I'm able to…" He pushed his hair back from his face, anything to avoid looking at the doctor.

"Achieve an erection?" Keller said without any trace of embarrassment. When James nodded, Keller leaned forward again. "Sergeant, your body has been through an extreme trauma. With your low blood pressure and recovery, it's going to take some time for you to heal enough to resume your normal activities."

"So a couple, four days?"

Keller drew in a breath through her nose, rather like James' mother had done when he was being particularly trying. "A longer period than that would not be abnormal," she said carefully. "That sort of thing is not purely a physical response. Give it some time."

Time. Easy for her to say, she wasn't the one with the problem. "Yeah, okay," James said, shifting against the couch cushions.

The doctor was still watching him. "Just be careful," she said. "You wouldn't want to sprain anything by being overzealous."

James raised his eyebrows. "You get a lot of soldiers coming to your med bay after being… overzealous?"

"There are over two hundred military and civilian males on my post, Sergeant, most of them between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five." She shook her head. "I have seen things that no one thought to warn us about in medical school."

James couldn't help smiling at her expression. "That's life on the front," he said.

Keller waved her hand. "It is what it is." She started packing things back into her carrying case. "Stargate Command will follow up regarding future medical appointments," she said. "But given what I've seen, I expect you going to recover well, given time."

"Thank you for making the trip out here," James said, standing when she did. To his relief, all he felt was a brief spot of lightheadedness.

"John knew I was coming back to Earth for this conference, he had offered to fly me out before he realized that you were missing," Keller said. "Plus, I'm always interested in gathering data from new ATA-gene carriers."

"Then I am glad to be a test subject," James said, refusing to dwell on the rush of memories of lying on a steel table, strapped down, unable to move. "I hope I didn't delay you from listening to your lecture."

"I doubt it. I'm giving the keynote lecture," Keller said with a smile. Then she raised her voice and called out, "Colonel Sheppard?"

The voices in the kitchen went quiet. In a moment John was back in the living room. "How is he?"

"In spite of all attempts to the contrary, it looks like Sergeant Barnes is going to make it," she said dryly. "I'll coordinate my report with Dr. Lam when I go back through Colorado Springs."

"Thanks for coming out, Jennifer, I appreciate it."

Keller smiled up at John, putting her hand on his arm. "It's good to see you again, Colonel."

James waited while John showed the doctor out the door to the elevator, saying something about the driver waiting in the street. He could hear Natalia's voice in the kitchen, too low to make out her words. He wondered what she and Steve were talking about, what she was saying to him to make him listen.

And he wondered if there was any possible way to get Steve Rogers out of the apartment without the threat of physical violence.

John came back into the room, closing the door behind him. He walked to the armchair opposite James' couch and sat down. At John's expression, James also sat.

It took John a moment to speak. "Here's the deal," John said eventually. "You pull shit like this again, you're going to lock-up."

"Yessir," James said evenly.

"Shut the hell up and listen," John snapped. James closed his mouth. "There's a lot of people up the chain of command who would like nothing more than to have you executed for treason, all this brainwashing and old war hero stuff be damned."

"So why are you being so lenient?" James asked.

"Excuse me?"

"I go AWOL and all I get is a slap on the wrist and an order to stay with your mommy?"

John's expression went cold. "I don't care what your relationship is with her, don't talk about her like that," he said forcefully.

James sat forward. At that moment, he didn't care that John was a Colonel, didn't care that he could be thrown in lock-up for insubordination. This kid had no right to tell him what to do about Natalia. "My relationship with Natasha is none of your business—"

"You made it my business forty-three years ago!" John interrupted, his voice rising to a shout. "Leave her out of this!"

In the deep silence that followed John's words, James found himself sitting on the edge of the couch, his heart racing, adrenaline surging his veins. In spite of how fucked up it was, he wanted to punch this kid for daring to think he had any call on Natalia, that he had any right to her at all.

He was jealous of John's place in Natalia's life.

He was jealous of his own son.

"Now," John said calmly, smoothing his jacket flat as he sat back. "General O'Neill has intervened on your behalf, given everything that has happened. He's not your biggest fan, but he agrees that your expertise and experience will be of value to Stargate Command."

"What, until I get booted?" James asked. John looked confused. James turned his empty arm socket in John's direction. "Last time I checked, active military personnel need more than one arm."

"I'm offering you a chance to make a difference in this world, and a whole hell of other worlds too," John said. "What you know about Isis and the Goa'uld could help us greatly."

"I don't know anything about the Goa'uld," James objected.

"You spent months finding collectors who had Goa'uld artifacts that we didn't even know existed," John said. "Combined with your skill set, you don't think you can help?"

James looked away. This was a sop, a carrot dangled in front of an injured man to get him to crawl those last few miles. Eventually, some military bureaucrat would boot him out, into a jail cell or into the world, James didn't know. But it would happen, as sure as the sun rose in the east.

But what the hell else was he going to do in the meantime?

"Fine," James said, swallowing his misgivings. "What do you want?"

John gave him a pointed look. "I want a report on the security vulnerabilities you found at Area 51, and I want it by tomorrow morning," he said, rising to his feet. "The Area 51 head of security wanted a crack at you herself, but I convinced her that this was better than truncheons and rubber hoses."

James dragged himself to his feet. Exhaustion was pushing at the back of his skull and all he wanted to do was to lie down. "Tomorrow morning, yes sir."

"And when you're done that," John went on, "I want a written report on every interaction you had with Isis. The Tok'ra might have her now, but that doesn't mean that we're out of the woods yet."

"Yes, sir."

John walked across the room, stopping at James' side. "Given everything," John said in a low voice, too quiet to be overhead in the kitchen, "You should probably stop calling me 'sir'."

James raised his eyebrow. "Yes, ma'am?"

For a moment, James thought he'd gone too far, but John just rolled his eyes as he continued on his way to the kitchen. "Yeah, this is going to be just awesome," John muttered.

Natalia came through the kitchen archway, a question in her expression. John leaned down to kiss her cheek. "I'm going to go see Tony," said John. "He owes me a cup of coffee."

"Don't leave without saying goodbye," Natalia said, going up on her toes to kiss John on the forehead.

"You'll be seeing so much of me, you're going to get sick of my face," John warned her.

"Never."

Mother and son smiled at each other, as if there were no one else in the room. Envy curled over in James' chest, but he kept his expression blank. _Observe and record. Do not engage_.

"Goodbye, Captain," John called over Natalia's head.

In an instant, Steve Rogers appeared behind Natalia. He held out his hand and shook with John. "Colonel, thanks for everything."

"Don't mention it." And with that, John Sheppard sauntered through the room, gave James one last nod, and was gone.

James let out a sigh. He hated writing reports. All those details and clarifications; he'd rather have just told John what was wrong with Area 51 security. But he'd play John's game for now, jump through hoops and respond to whistles, until he could figure what the hell he was going to do.

"Bucky."

James turned around. Steve had his arms crossed over his chest, feet apart, jaw set, and there was nothing left of James' friend in this mountain of a man.

James said nothing.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Steve demanded. "Leaving the hospital and going across country on your own?"

James shook his head. "You're just mad that you wasted a day in Colorado Springs," he said. "What, no soldiers hanging around asking for your autograph?"

Natalia tried to say something but Steve surged forward, hands going to his sides. "I needed to know you were all right!"

James pushed his hair back, out of his face in case this turned into a fight. "Bullshit!" he exclaimed. "You went out there for you, and you only."

"I didn't—"

"At what point in the last few weeks did I give you the impression I wanted you anywhere near me?" James spat, closing the distance between them. He would never have tried to start a fight with the old Steve, would never have needed to. But this man was all muscle and vibrating energy (falling) and James' ever instinct was to lash out, to drive him away. "I went to war without you, I survived the last seventy years without you, so get out of my face!"

Steve stepped forward, close enough for James to kick. "And I suppose you got out of the Hydra base without me?" he demanded. The moment the words left his mouth, his expression changed, from angry to shocked all in one instant.

In that moment, James could honestly have killed Steve. He might not remember everything, but he was damned sure he never told Steve everything he went through at the Hydra base, not the experiments, not the beatings, not what the guards did when they were through beating him. He would never have told anyone that.

He thought about punching Steve, getting into a fight, making it physical, and he knew it wouldn't fix anything. Steve would still be there, big and blond and dangerous (a knife in his belly _why did he keep thinking that_?) and ready for another round.

So James just turned around, walked to the apartment door, and pointedly held it open.

"Natasha, I…"

"It's okay, Steve," Natalia said. Out of the corner of his eye, James could see her put her hand on Steve's arm, and he didn't even care. "We'll talk later."

Steve walked to the door, pausing right in front of James. James didn't bother to look at the man, just kept his eyes at a spot over Steve's shoulder.

After an eternity, Steve left. James let the door swing closed behind the man. He had never been so glad to hear the soft click of a latch in his life.

Natalia was staring at him. That was fine. He had nothing to say. Moving slowly about the room, James gathered up his little pill bottles and placed them beside the doctor's sheaf of folded papers on the table.

Natalia spoke first. "When I see you and Steve together, I don't understand you."

"Nothing to understand," James said. "I don't want him anywhere near me."

"Do you remember what you said to him in Texas?"

This pulled James around. "He wasn't in Texas."

Natalia frowned. "Yes, he was," she said. "After we captured Isis, I came back for you and Steve was there."

James shook his head. He didn't want to hear this. "No, you went after Isis, and I passed out," he said. "I woke up in the SGC."

"You were conscious when I got back," Natalia pressed on, her voice soft and relentless. "You asked Steve to take care of me."

James pressed his palm against his forehead. He didn't remember that, he didn't _remember_. "You must have heard wrong," he snapped. "I wouldn't do that."

"Why not?" Natalia asked. "The way you act around Steve, it's like you see a different man than the one I know."

"Maybe so," James said. He grabbed the pill bottles and the papers, managing to avoid dropping anything. "A lot's happened since I was that man's friend."

Natalia just looked at him, quiet and intense, and he couldn't handle the weight of her gaze any more. He went into the bathroom and closed the door. The fleeting sensation of being alone didn't help the confusion in his mind. Everything about _Steve_ was mixed up with blood and violence and every time James tried to push through, to figure it why, other horrors crowded their way up to the front of his mind.

James dropped the pill bottles and the papers on the counter. He gave his hand a shake, then picked up one of the bottles. The bottle had a little warning on it, about narcotics and overdoses. James tossed the bottle, contents and all, into the trash. He didn't want any narcotics, not when he was in unfamiliar territory. He couldn't risk having his thoughts clouded now.

The second bottle followed the first into the trash, then the doctor's papers. He didn't need anyone telling him how to heal. In the past, in the war and later in Russia, the doctors would patch him up and then send him out to get hurt again. That was how this game was played. But no more. He was finished being someone else's weapon.

If they even wanted him again. What good was he to anyone like this?

When he exited the bathroom a few minutes later, the apartment was empty. The display above the living room table was on. _I'm going to make sure that Tony and John are all right,_ the note read. _I will be back soon._

It stung that she had run off so soon after everything that had happened. He was pretty sure that Tony Stark and John Sheppard wouldn't have any problems interacting; they were both grown men.

But whatever. Natalia could do what she liked. She was her own woman; he had no calls on her time.

James went to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, but he knew enough about healing to know that he had to eat regularly. The cold chicken and sliced tomato he found in the fridge tasted like cardboard, the water from the tap flat and stale. But he had to keep going. He wasn't going to be like one of those guys in the war who just gave up, stopped talking, stopped eating. He wasn't weak.

Finally, when he couldn't put delay things any longer, he went back into the living room and sat in his spot on the couch. "Jarvis, are you still here?" he asked.

"I am," the computer answered promptly. "Is there something with which I can assist you?"

"Probably. I mean, yeah. Is Colonel Sheppard still in the building?"

"Yes, he and Mr. Stark are engaged in a productive conversation."

Something in Jarvis' tone was enough to pull James' attention around. "You make that sound like it doesn't happen often."

"In the past, that has not always been the case," Jarvis said delicately. "They have known each other for some times, and occasionally old grievances arise. As it is with all old friends."

Oh great. Now Jarvis on his case about Steve. James shook his head. "Look, I'm on the clock. Do you know if Natasha has any paper around here, something to write with?"

Natalia's note on the display was replaced by a blank screen. "You are welcome to use this interface for your report."

Just what James didn't want. "No offence, but I think the only thing more painful than me writing this thing out by hand would be me trying to type one-handed."

"That is not quite what I mean." In an instant, James' previous spoken words appeared on the screen. "This interface has more than one form of informational input."

The relief that washed over James was a near-tangible thing. He wouldn't have to spend the next twelve hours fighting one-handed with paperwork. "Jarvis, did anyone ever tell you that you're amazing?"

"On occasion," Jarvis said, and for a computer he sounded pretty smug. "Where shall we begin?"

As James described the sections he needed for John's report, he twisted his left side to relieve some of the pain. The place where his left arm should have been burned, and his back muscles ached, but he was fine. He didn't need any medication to get through this, he only needed time.

He needed his head clear, or as clear as he could be with the giant gaps in his memory.

He couldn't afford to show weakness. Not at this stage in the game.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

James worked steadily on his report for a few hours. He had spent enough time over the previous few months figuring out the security holes in Area 51's defences to know exactly what to say; the only difficult part was putting the words in the right order. It had been a great relief when Jarvis showed him how to move blocks of text around on the display.

After the report stretched into its forty-second page, James' voice was hoarse from the recitation. Telling Jarvis to give him a minute, James stood and walked stiffly into the kitchen. A glass of water helped his throat, but not the growing fuzziness in his head.

He knew he should eat something, to keep his energy up, but the thought of any more cardboard food stuck in his throat. Instead, he poured himself another glass of water and sat at the small table. The glass left a wet circle on the table when he picked it up. Instead of taking a drink, he moved the glass around the table, leaving a series of small circles on the table's shiny surface.

Natalia hadn't returned. He felt her absence keenly and that made him uncomfortable, that he needed her so much. It hadn't always been like this. Before, when he had seen Natalia during or after a mission, he had welcomed her presence, valued her insight, had taken comfort in her company.

But this was different. Now, with his arm gone and his memories shattering to pieces whenever he got to close to answers, Natalia was the only solid thing he had. Whatever lies the Department X scientists had put into his head, Natalia was real.

James put the glass down. If Natalia was real, maybe he was the broken one. Isis had told them that the Soviet doctors used James to keep Natalia in line, and James had spent years thinking nothing of it. Every time over forty years, he had gone willingly to her bed and he had never thought more of it.

No, that was a lie, James admitted to himself as he traced lines through the condensation on the table. A few times over the years, he'd wondered if their commanders were giving Natalia to him as a reward for services rendered, as it were. He'd never asked her if she was ordered to take him into her bed; hadn't wanted to know if it was desire or obedience that motivated her.

Knowing their first time together had been a direct order was hard enough.

Here, now… Natalia had been a decade or more out of the Red Room. She was her own woman now, she made her own decisions, lived by her own choices. And she had told him that she had chosen him.

He desperately wanted to believe that.

The silence in the apartment weighed on him. The wave of lightheadedness when he stood was not unexpected, but still James hated it, hated his body's weakness. The only thing he was glad about was that Natalia wasn't there to see him holding himself up, breathing deep to avoid passing out.

Weak.

(Falling.)

When the worst of the sensation passed, James made himself stand straight. His left side ached with a pulsing beat, and the pain in his left shoulder had coalesced into a sharp point of burning. He had been able to ignore it while he was working, but with that distraction gone, the pain was loud in his head.

Weak.

James walked back to the living room, where his report was displayed over the table, waiting for him. He knew he should get back to work; he had his orders, after all.

"Hey, Jarvis?"

"Yes?"

"Is Colonel Sheppard still in the building?" James asked, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to clear his head.

"He is not," Jarvis responded. "He left approximately ninety minutes ago, accompanied by Agent Romanoff."

James looked up sharply. "She's gone?" he asked, the words out of his mouth before he could think. "Where did she go?"

She hadn't come back to the apartment for a jacket or anything, not even a word. But then, James didn't know what she had taken with her when she left the apartment after their disagreement about Steve. She could have walked out with an entire overnight bag and half her armory and James wouldn't have even known.

"Agent Romanoff did not share her plans," Jarvis said. Maybe it was James' imagination, but the computer sounded slightly reproving. "However, she was on foot."

"Sheppard didn't have a car?" James rubbed his hand against the leg of his trousers, aware that he was agitated but not exactly sure _why_.

"Colonel Sheppard left in his waiting vehicle," Jarvis said. The display over the table popped up a small screen, showing video surveillance footage from the lobby. On the screen, John Sheppard walked with Natalia out of the lobby and into the street. They paused, the angle too oblique for James to read their lips. Then Sheppard stepped into the backseat of the military-issue sedan. Natalia watched the car drive away, then, pulling her jacket close around her chest, she walked in the opposite direction down the sidewalk, out of sight.

Natalia was fine, James told himself. She was a grown woman with her own life; she was able to decide where she wanted to go, and didn't need to check in with him about it. He wasn't worried for her safety. He knew Natalia too well to think that her own security was not at the forefront of her mind, at all times.

James pushed his hair back from his face. "So Natasha's gone. Who's left in this place?"

"Dr. Banner is currently out," Jarvis said. "However, Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark are both in the Tower. Captain Rogers is in the training room."

Well, that was subtle. James ignored the hint. "What's Stark up to?" he asked. "Spending money?"

Jarvis didn't answer for a long moment. "Mr. Stark is in R&D Laboratory Five," he finally said. "You are welcome to visit."

The words had a hint of challenge to them, and James wondered how much of that came from Jarvis. "I'd love to," James said. "Point the way."

Jarvis's instructions took James out into the small foyer between the apartment door and the elevator. The tile floor was cold under James' bare feet, and the sensation abruptly reminded him that his borrowed clothes were the only thing he had to his name at the moment. No socks, no shoes, not even a jacket.

The subject was easier to control that way.

James pushed the fragment of paranoia to the back of his mind. If these people wanted to play mind games, they'd have to up their game. James had spent decades playing with the masters.

The elevator took him to another floor. He stepped out into a cavernous room, the elevator opening into an enclosed glass box. On the other side of the glass was a large laboratory, taking up the entire floor.

In the middle of the room stood Iron Man.

James just stared, not letting himself sigh or roll his eyes. Really, that was how Stark wanted to play this? Some stupid dick-measuring competition over robotics?

James' train of thought was cut off when Tony Stark rolled out from behind a large server rack, his wheeled chair bumping into a large robot arm. The arm, which for some reason was wearing a plastic St. Patrick's hat strapped to its claw, reached out to steady Stark before he fell off the chair.

"Sir," Jarvis's voice echoed in the glass enclosure. "Your visitor has arrived."

Stark swiveled around. He stared at James with an intensity James wouldn't have credited the man for. Then the intensity was gone. "Let him in," Stark called out, springing off his chair.

The door at the end of the enclosure hissed open. James walked into the lab slowly, taking in every detail of his surroundings. The lab equipment was a mix of things futuristic and old-fashioned; screwdrivers and wrenches hung on a wall beside a semi-transparent holographic model of Iron Man's helmet.

James said nothing.

"So," Stark said, moving to stand between James and the Iron Man suit. "You look like road kill."

James smiled then, wide enough to show his teeth. "You this nice to all your guests, Stark?"

Stark crossed his arms over his chest. "No, really, you look like shit. Did you ride underneath the bus from Colorado Springs?"

James shrugged, exaggerating the motion for Stark. The muscles along his left side screamed at the abortive gesture, but it made Stark's eyes focus on the space where James' left arm had been. "It's been a hell of a week," was all James said.

Stark let his gaze travel down James' body, then back up to his face. It took him a minute to speak. "At least you don't look homeless anymore," he muttered. He tapped his fingers restlessly against his arm. "Anyway, do you want something?

James shifted his weight onto his left foot, trying to stay balanced without straining his back too much. This room with its tools and sharp instruments made him nervous. "Jarvis is neat," he said, stalling for time while he tried to read Stark's mood. There really was no easy way to ask what he really wanted. "Helpful, and all that."

"Yeah, I'm aware," Stark said. In another person, the tone would have been rude, but combined with the general physical restlessness and the facial expression, James slotted Stark's mannerisms into the general category of hyperactive restlessness, while not frenzied enough to be drug-induced. Interesting. "He said you haven't been trying to hack into SHIELD servers or anything."

James let the dig pass. His long-term plans about SHIELD intelligence, or the lack thereof, weren't the discussion he wanted to have with Stark.

Stark snapped his fingers as he went back to his chair. "Anything else, Snow Cone?"

Stark's propensity for sarcastic nicknames had been part of the in-depth background check James had run before he came to New York the first time to find Natalia. He ignored the distraction and straightened his spine. This was it. This was what he'd been preparing himself for. "There is something I want to ask you about," he said, breathing steadily to calm his pounding heart.

"What?" Stark said, doing a half-spin, already distracted from the conversation.

"Extremis."

Stark set his feet down, halting his movement instantly. The sudden silence was overwhelming. James found himself tensing for a fight, only he wasn't sure from which direction the attack would come.

"No," Stark said, and the word fell like a stone into the room. "Absolutely not."

James took a step towards Stark. The giant robotic arm reached out to block him, its claw rotating and snapping like jaws. "Just hear me out—"

"There's nothing to hear," Stark interrupted, his dark eyes flashing. "Give it up, Barnes. Extremis is dead and buried, kind of like everyone infected with it."

"Not everyone."

At James' words, Stark went still as Iron Man came to life, the helmet's eyes glowing as the suit's body straightened, its hands flattening at its sides.

James moved on instinct, stepping back from the robot arm and into an open space where he could see both Stark and the suit. His weight shifted to the balls of his feet for a fast response and he was ready to reach for a weapon; a wrench three feet to his right, a screwdriver tossed carelessly on a nearby bench. Not that he would be able to stop the Iron Man suit, not without his metal arm.

Before James could make a move, a low hum filled the room. "Sir," came Jarvis's voice from all sides.

Stark shook himself all over. "Jarvis, can you give a review of the automatic response in the suit?" he asked, passing his hand over his eyes. "That was new."

"It's not supposed to move like that?" James asked, not moving from his defensive position.

"Still fine-tuning some of the responses in this new suit," Stark said. He leaned his hip against the robotic arm. "Funny stuff can happen in the lab."

James let his weight settle back onto his heels. "Like a one-armed visitor accidentally getting his head blown off?"

"Do you really think I want to explain that to Natasha?" Stark asked. "How about you tell me what you know about Extremis?"

James sized Stark up. Given what Natalia had told him about Stark, James had to expect the possibility that she had shared something about his usual information-gathering tactics with Stark, especially before Natalia knew his real intent in New York.

He'd have to take a chance.

"Aldrich Killian's company was conducting experiments with it," said James carefully. "Subjects were able to heal injuries and regrow lost limbs."

"If they didn't incinerate on the spot," Stark snapped. "Extremis is fundamentally unstable."

"But someone might be able to—"

"No, _someone_ might turn himself into a three-thousand-degree time bomb," Stark interrupted. "You know about Extremis? Then you know that it wasn't a matter of _if_ with this thing, it was a matter of _when_. Even with the boosters, which _no longer exist_ , subjects were turning themselves into little self-contained supernovas. Weren't you paying attention to what happened over Christmas?"

"Not every one of them," James said. His heart was beating so hard in his throat that it was a wonder he could speak at all. He couldn't let this slip through his fingers; Stark had to understand. "Not Virginia Potts."

The robot arm clacked its claw menacingly, but Stark just shook his head. "You know, Romanoff told me you'd know about Pepper." He just sounded tired. "What did you do? Bribe the doctors?"

"I hacked the Pentagon's servers and read the report on the Mandarin attacks."

Stark's glared turned incredulous, but James just stared back. It wasn't exactly true, but it would keep Stark distracted for a while. "Look, we managed to find a way to make Pepper less likely to flame out, but that is just one case. Even if we had any more of the Extremis serum, there's no way of knowing if it would work on anyone else." Stark stepped back to his workbench. James could tell from the set of the man's shoulders that the conversation was coming to an end. "And there isn't any. No more Extremis, nothing."

James clenched his right hand to keep from screaming. It couldn't be as cut and dried as that; someone out there had to have more of the serum, some scientist had to have hidden some away for personal use. There had to be something.

But Stark had his back to James now, and James knew that pressing the point further at the moment wouldn't make Stark change his mind. Clenching his teeth to contain the sudden wave of helplessness and panic, James managed to say, "Thanks for your time, Stark."

He turned on his heel. All he wanted to do was to find a quiet corner and regroup, to think of another plan, another angle of attack to convince Stark to help him.

"By the way," Stark's voice followed him to the door. "If you go after Pepper, know that she's still capable of setting you on fire."

James didn't even turn around. "Pepper Potts ain't got nothing to worry about from me," he called as he walked through the lab's glass door. The door sealed behind him with a hiss.

He managed to walk to the elevator without faltering. Once inside, the door closed behind him, yet the elevator did not move.

James slumped against the elevator wall, the disappointment and frustration sapping what little strength he had. He hadn't expected Stark to say yes right away, of course, but the complete refusal had shaken him.

It wasn't that he even wanted Extremis; the side effects were incredibly dangerous and usually fatal, but give the damage to his body, he didn't know what else to do. The doctors had been clear that there was no way to put a functioning prosthetic arm onto his body. The damage Isis had done to him was too complete.

He had to get his arm back. He couldn't stand to live his life like this, not so _ruined_.

He had to do something.

He just didn't know what.

"What now?" Jarvis asked. He wasn't as cold as he'd been on the first day, but his tone was definitely disapproving.

James rubbed his hand over his face, the stubble on his cheeks pricking at his fingers. "You got any place I could punch something?" he asked.

"There is the training room, but as I mentioned before, Captain Rogers is there."

James let his head fall back against the wall. While the idea of punching Steve in the face was tempting, then he would have to be within five feet of Steve, and the idea made his stomach ache. "No," James muttered.

"Back to Agent Romanoff's quarters, then?"

James shook his head. Without Natalia there, he wasn't sure he could stand the quiet of those rooms. "Got any place a guy can go to unwind?"

 "The tower has an entertainment centre," Jarvis said. "As well as a swimming pool, an indoor track, a ballroom, an arboretum—"

"This ballroom, does it got a piano?" James interrupted. "Have a piano," he swiftly corrected himself. He hated it when his grammar slipped back into the streets of Brooklyn. Fine, if it was for a mission, but not if he just fell into it.

 "There is a piano in the ballroom," Jarvis told him as the elevator began to descend. "The room was designed for large celebrations. However, since the Mandarin attacks over Christmas, Mr. Stark has not held any events in that room."

"Now, that's pretty sensible," James said. "Security on large events can be a fucking pain."

"Do you had much experience in running security at large events?" Jarvis asked.

"Not so much running as running around," James said. "Come on, Jarvis, you're the one who threatened me with SHIELD's security assessment, you should know better."

"Indeed." The elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors slid open. "Proceed to the far doors."

James hesitated in the elevator for a moment. "Hey, look, can you tell Stark that I meant what I said?"

"In regards to…"

"Ms. Potts." James looked at the corner of the elevator where Jarvis's voice originated. "I wouldn't do anything against her."

"That is for the best," Jarvis said. "There are many precautions in place for Ms. Potts' protection."

James raised his eyebrows. "From that I've heard, Ms. Potts can protect herself."

And with that, he left the elevator.

The hallway around him was still, with only the faint background hum of circulating air. James paced across the carpet, his footsteps silent. Ahead of him, the large double-doors reached floor to ceiling. There were mirrors on either side of the hallway, but James made himself stare straight ahead. No need to look in the mirrors; he knew what he would see.

The door opened easily under his hand. James slipped into the room and pushed the door closed behind him; less of a security risk that way, against anyone sneaking into the room behind him. As he did so, he took in the wide expanse of the room. The large ceiling reached across to the far full-sized windows overlooking Grand Central Station.

The room appeared to be empty, but James couldn't let his assumptions override his common sense. He did a quick circuit of the room, checking behind the bar and in the storage spaces, glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs without anyone to see him stumble once or twice. Maybe five times, no more.

Once he had ascertained that the room was truly empty, and that the other entrances were secure, he made his way over to the raised stage.

In the middle of the stage stood a grand piano, its black surface gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. James ran an appreciative hand over the surface. On one particularly interesting mission in the eighties, his cover had been that of a piano tuner in the grander hotels in Paris, and he knew by sight that this was a quality instrument.

Trust Tony Stark to leave such a lovely thing unused in an empty room.

James seated himself on the bench and lifted the lid to reveal the keys. He gently played a chord, the tone mellow and rich. The sound lodged in his throat, making it hard to breathe through the pure sound.

He was not going to break down over a piano. He hadn't fallen apart when he woke up with one arm, nor when they'd told him they couldn't fix him. He wasn't going to collapse over the fact that he could no longer play the piano.

He ran through the right hand part for some of the faster Rachmaninoff pieces, until the missing notes drove him to stop. He switched to the melody of some advertising jingle, pressing on the keys so softly the piano scarcely whispered in the large room.

He didn't remember when he first realized he could play piano, but his handlers had made him practice the instrument as a way of increasing the dexterity of his metal hand. The fine movement required for the instrument was exhausting and often painful, the strain of such precision straining and cramping in what remained of his left arm under the metal prosthesis, but he never let anyone see his discomfort.

He couldn't remember learning to play the piano, which likely meant he had been programmed with the knowledge and skill in Department X, much like his ability to use computers and wire electronic devices.

He moved into a melody from long ago, something from before the War, before Department X. But the tune wasn't right; his fingers didn't know which notes to play. He just couldn't remember how it as supposed to go.

Frustration roiled in his gut as he slammed his palm against the keys, the discordant notes loud in the empty room.

"Sergeant," Jarvis said, his voice quiet and far away. "Might you be interested in some musical scores that feature the right hand?"

James let out a bark of what might be called laughter. "Don't think that's going to help," he said. He jabbed down on the middle C key, the sound filling the room. "You ever seen anything more pathetic than a one-armed piano player?"

"I dare say you might give the one-armed trombone player a run for his money," Jarvis replied.

The visual was enough to pull James out of his spiral of self-pity. "Your sense of humor is a hell of a thing, Jarvis."

"Agent Barton once likened it to someone who was raised by wolves," Jarvis said. "I prefer to view it as the inevitable result of Mr. Stark's influence in my formative years."

James lowered the lid over the piano keys. He had come down to this room to escape from the conversation with Stark in the lab, from the reports demanded of him by John Sheppard, from everything to do with his life, for all the good it did him.

It had been a mistake, trying to play piano again. All his one-handed efforts had proven was that there was yet another part of his life had been ruined when Isis had torn off his arm.

James put his hand on the keyboard lid and closed his eyes. He would not break down over this. He would not grieve over a skill that had been shoved into his head by scientists and butchers.

(Faintly, in the back of his mind, he could see a dingy room with a battered stand-up piano. He stood at the keyboard, the keys at his eye level as he carefully played a tune with one finger.)

 James stood up, shaking off the cobwebs of memory. There was no use dwelling on the past, especially a past in which he couldn't differentiate memory from lies.

"Thanks for showing me this place," he called out to Jarvis as he walked across the empty room. "Stark sure picked out a nice piano there."

"I believe that Ms. Potts arranged for the purchase of that particular instrument," Jarvis said, his voice following James through the big doors and into the hallway.

"The lady's got taste." James stepped into the elevator and let Jarvis close the doors. "Can I get back into Natasha's room?"

"Indeed." The elevator ascended. "She requested that you be allowed access to her apartments."

James watched the floor numbers illuminate on the elevator panel. "Is she still out?"

"Agent Romanoff has not yet returned to the Tower."

James wondered if he should call her, to make sure she was all right. But he didn't want to be clingy, didn't want Natalia to know how much he missed her. It had only been a few hours and she was a busy woman, with a life of her own that didn't include him.

So he swallowed on his misgivings and waited until the elevator doors opened on Natalia's floor, got back into her apartment with only a little fumbling at the security scanner, and returned to his seat on the couch. His report hung illuminated mid-air, waiting for him.

James pushed his hair back behind his ears and tried to focus on his mission. Complete the report on Area 51. Submit it to Natalia's son, Colonel John Sheppard. Wait for further instruction.

"All right, let's pick up at the part where the points of entrance into the Vaults are in surveillance blind spots," he said to Jarvis.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Darkness.

Around him, the night wind fluttered through the trees, dried leaves whispering like a death rattle. Overhead, the light from crescent moon barely illuminated the clearing in which he stood.

He was drinking from a canteen, the water flat and metallic on his tongue. He finished drinking and tossed the canteen away, then he looked around.

There, on a large rock in the middle of the clearing, was the child.

The child he had to kill.

The child looked at him, her pale face reflecting the light from the star-filled skies above. She was not afraid of him.

Moving carefully, he sat on the rock beside the child and pulled her onto his lap. She was small, and she went to him without complaint.

"You did a good job this night, soldier," he said to the child, the Russian words moving slow and thick over his tongue. "A good job."

The child said something to him, but he couldn't make out her meaning over the rattling of the leaves. He put his arm across her chest to hold her still, and looked up.

Here, far away from the lights of the city, the stars stretched vast across the heavens.

"Look at the stars, child."

The little girl obeyed, turning her face to look at the sky. "Do they have names?" she asked, her young voice suddenly loud in the night.

"They do." He shifted her around so he could hold the back of her head with his metal hand. Her skull was small, cupped in his palm. "Can you count the stars for me?"

"I can do it." The child raised her hand and pointed up with one finger extended. "One, two, three…"

Bile rose in his throat at the knowledge of what he was about to do. This child had done nothing wrong. This child had to die.

"…Four, five, six…"

He let out his breath. He had his orders.

"…Seven, eight..."

He lifted his right hand to rest his palm on the child's chin.

"…Nine—"

With a sudden twist of his hands, he broke the child's neck.

The sickening snap vibrated through his hand, up his arm, and pulled him all the way out of his nightmare. He was on his knees when he opened his eyes, reaching blindly for anything to hang on to. His hand slammed into a soft edge and he held on, blinking in the dim light.

He was alone in Natalia's living room.

His head echoed with the snap of the child's neck, be it from fevered nightmare or long-repressed memory. The worst part was that he didn't _know_ , if it had been his imagination cooking up such horrors for him, or if he had actually murdered a child in some distant forest, long ago.

Gradually, as his breathing slowed, he could make out small sounds coming from the kitchen. Natalia must be back.

As he stood, his hand on the couch for balance, he was struck with a memory of the child, looking up at him with absolute trust in her eyes. This wasn't a fragment of his nightmare, this was something else; outside, in daylight. The child's red hair hung over her shoulders as she smiled up at him.

Then the fragment was gone.

James closed his eyes. The child had to have been real, otherwise how could he remember her while awake?

She had been real, and it was very likely that he had killed her.

He wondered if he had ever known her name.

Slowly, he walked to the kitchen. Natalia stood beside the stove, chopping something. She was singing under her breath as she worked, her hands sure and confident wielding the sharp knife.

He cleared his throat. "Hey."

Natalia swung around, her hair sliding over her shoulders as she smiled up at him. "You were asleep when I came in," she said. "I didn't want to wake you."

"Yeah, I guess I took a nap." He slipped into the room, going over to Natalia. He put his hand on her waist, just needing to feel her, know she was real and this wasn't another fragment of nightmare. She turned under his hand and embraced him, her arms going around his body, her head tucking neatly under his chin.

He buried his face in her hair, holding her as tight as one arm would allow. No matter how many times he held her, he was always somewhat surprised at how alive she felt, how vibrant and warm.

She turned in his grasp, going up on her toes to press a kiss against his lips. "Dinner will be done soon," she said, then kissed him again.

"Do you want any help?" he asked, reluctantly letting her go.

"No." Natalia went back to the stove and lifted handfuls of sliced potatoes into the boiling water. "I picked up some clothing for you while I was out, it's in the bedroom. Go look through things and tell me if there's anything you want me to take back."

James rested his hip against the counter. "Why did you do that?" he asked.

Natalia put a lid on the boiling pot. "Bruce's clothes don't fit you, you're too tall." She turned around to face him. "I thought you might like some clothes that aren't uncomfortable."

"You assume a lot," James said, unable to keep the words to himself. He was irritated that Natalia had done this, and he didn't understand why.

Natalia just looked at him for a long moment. "I can take the clothes back," she said, turning to the counter. She picked up her knife and began to dismember the chicken.

James pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen. He knew his irritation towards Natalia was irrational; beyond irrational, unwarranted. Natalia had done something nice for him, and he had thrown it back in her face.

(He should have stayed away from Natalia. She didn't need him complicating her situation; she had a life of her own now.)

Rubbing his hand against his leg, he entered the bedroom. On the bed lay neat piles of clothing; pants and shirts and underwear and socks. James picked up one of the shirts. He would be able to easily pull it over his head with one hand. The other shirts were button-downs, not difficult for him to do up with one hand.

He checked the tag on the top pair of pants. Of course it was the right size, long enough in the leg for his height. He had no doubt that the rest would also fit him perfectly.

He wasn't surprised. Natalia's skills at observation and deduction were part of what made her the best operative James had ever worked with. She could see what people needed before they knew it themselves, and could use that knowledge to track them, find them, either to end their lives or to save them.

Holding the waistband of the pants, James slumped onto the bed. He didn't know what to feel about what Natalia had done. She had gone out, unasked, and gotten him exactly what he needed. Would he have thought to ask her for clothing? Would he have gone with her if she'd asked?

With a sigh, James tossed the pants back into the pile and shuffled through the stack of shirts. He put a few to the side as colors he would not wear, then stood and went into the bathroom.

He took care of the usual business and was washing his hand when he saw two small pill bottles sitting against the mirror. The pill bottles he knew he had thrown into the garbage earlier in the day, after Dr. Keller's visit.

He stared at the bottles, suddenly furious. He had gotten rid of those for a reason. He wasn't going to take anyone's drugs, wasn't going to let his faculties be dulled for any reason. Why couldn't Natalia respect that? So what if he was still in pain? So what if the muscles in his back and sides ached whenever he breathed? What did it matter if the place where his arm used to connect to his body still stabbed with pain? He wasn't weak, he wouldn't let his body's weaknesses control his mind.

Deliberately, he popped open the lid on the first bottle, then the second, and threw all the pills into the toilet. He flushed twice to make sure they were gone, before dropping the empty bottles into the trash bin.

He could not let his body's weaknesses control him.

He stormed out into the hallway, ready to do battle with Natalia. She had no right to pick those pills out of the trash, not when he had thrown them away. And why had she left the building earlier without even saying anything to him?

His angry words died on his lips when he entered the kitchen. Natalia stood by the stove, browning chicken parts in a skillet. The air was rich with welcoming scents, of hot oil and herbs and cooking meat. James stood by the table, his anger draining away as fast as it had come to him. He hadn't realized that he was so hungry.

"Will the clothes work for you?" Natalia asked, her voice calm as she turned a chicken leg over with a fork.

James walked over to her side, kissing the top of her head before moving over to lean against an unused bit of countertop. "Most of it, yeah."

"Good."

For a few minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were the hiss of the chicken in the hot pan and the whirr of the oven's fan. When Natalia finished browning a piece of chicken, she placed it in a shallow pan on the back of the stove, and began another piece.

James' mouth watered at the smell of the chicken, and he had to swallow against the rumbling in his stomach. He couldn't remember when he had last eaten. Much earlier in the day. "That smells good."

"I found some fresh sage in the market," Natalia said. She lifted another piece of chicken into the pan. "I didn't have a chance to go shopping after I got back from Chicago so I needed to pick some things up."

James edged closer to Natalia. "That's a lot of food." Indeed, it looked as if Natalia was cooking an entire chicken.

"It keeps well." She lifted the last piece of chicken into the pan, and slid the pan into the oven. "Can you get the butter in the fridge?"

James did as she asked. Natalia cut a large chunk of butter into the skillet, sending up a loud hiss as the fat met the hot surface. Quickly, she lifted the lid off the pot, drained the potatoes, then dumped the potatoes into the skillet.

"We can eat in half an hour," Natalia said, giving the potatoes a quick stir. "Is that all right for you?"

James nodded, watching as Natalia sprinkled salt and chopped herbs over the potatoes, then put the skillet into the oven beside the chicken. She closed the oven door, cleared off the counter, then went to wash her hands in the sink.

James watched her move. Her hair hung over her shoulders, her face nearly bare of makeup, her clothing practical. She moved with the grace and certainty of an old woman in her young body. But then, she was nearly seventy years old now and, unlike himself, she had lived through every minute of her years.

"What are you thinking?" she asked as she dried her hands.

"That you're beautiful."

Natalia smiled. "You flatter me." She reached up to run her thumb over his cheek, her hand sliding around to cup his head and pull him down to her. When she kissed him, he responded willingly. Her lips were soft against his and he marveled at her, as he did every time she kissed him. How this woman, who knew him better than anyone on the planet, could still choose to stay with him.

"Come on," she whispered, taking his hand to guide him out of the kitchen and into the living room. Pushing him onto the couch, she curled up at his side.

He breathed against her hair for a few minutes, letting his back relax into the cushions. He wished he could convince himself that it really was going to be this easy.

Then something shifted and shards of pain stabbed his left shoulder, and that was enough to drive the thought from his head.

"I got rid of the pills," he said, his lips moving against Natalia's hair. "I threw them away the first time for a reason."

She pulled back to look at him. "You'll heal easier if you're not in so much pain," she said, her voice still calm. Maybe this was how he was being handled, through soft words and a calm expression.

"Getting my head messed up isn't going to make me heal any faster." He shifted away from Natalia on the couch, moving to pull up his report over the table. He'd finished most of it before he fell asleep, but Sheppard's deadline was closing in.

"I didn't say faster, I said easier." Natalia sat up straight, close but not touching him. "You don't need to be in pain."

"It's not going to happen, all right?" James snapped, raising his voice. He waited for Natalia to push any more objections at him, but she remained silent.

Fine. He had work to do.

He skipped down a few sections to reread what he had written, all the while painfully conscious of Natalia sitting at his side, quiet and still.

"Jarvis tells me that you went to talk to Tony," she said after a long silent stretch.

James bit down on his irritation. Of course Jarvis had told Natalia; not that James had expected anything he did in this building to be kept quiet. "I went to say thanks for his hospitality," James said after a minute. "He sure ain't like his old man."

"Do you remember much about Howard Stark?"

James moved a section of text three pages down. "He was a huge fan of Steve's, that's for sure. Always had his eye on the next big thing in science and weapons."

"He sounds like Tony, before Iron Man."

James let out a snort. "Howard wasn't one to strap himself into a tin can and fight Nazis," he said. "He had more sense that that."

"Tony's lack of common sense has saved my life on more than one occasion."

"Hey, I'm not saying Howard was better because of it." James scrolled down to the section on the transport trucks. He'd been getting tired by this point, and the text was sloppy. He highlighted a section to re-write later. "Iron Man is the perfect superhero for the modern age. Back in the war, he'd just have gotten himself killed."

"You told me a long time ago that there was no such thing as a superhero."

James rubbed his hand over his face. He wanted to shave again. "A live superhero is someone who lives through the impossible. A dead superhero is just someone whose fate finally catches up with them."

"We live through the impossible all the time," Natalia reminded him.

"That's different."

"How?"

"We're not superheroes, Talia. Eventually we'll get to that one mission that goes wrong, and we'll bleed out in the dark and no one will miss us. That's part of the life."

Only, not now, because who would want to send a one-armed operative into anything?

He batted irritably at the display, minimizing his report. He couldn't stand to look at anymore. In its place he pulled up his monitoring screens, noting the increase in chatter on the South African poster's rousing, specially around natural resource extraction. The poster was starting to make more inroads with the international community. Given another few days, and investors in the region might start getting nervous.

Uranium mining sites had some top of the line security, given the nature of the mineral, but James knew the diamond mines approached security from a different perspective, where the threat was theft underground.

If James Barnes was a betting man, he'd lay odds that something would happen before the end of the week.

He set up a few more search queries, added a handful of posters to his alerts list, then went back to his report.

Natalia stirred at his side. "This is what John wanted from you on Area 51?"

"Sure hope so. Short of me breaking into the facility again, this is all Sheppard's going to get."

"You can call him John, you know."

James glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "No."

"He—"

"Is the man standing between me and a treason charge," James interrupted. "He's a Colonel, I'm a Sergeant. There's no version of this where I get to refer to Sheppard with anything other than his full and proper rank."

He jabbed at the screen, his finger going through the display. The display rippled in protest as he pulled his finger back.

"He's your son—"

"He's your son," James cut her off. He turned to look at Natalia. She was pale. "I didn't ever do anything for that boy."

"You gave him the Ancient gene that lets him work alien technology," Natalia said. She was starting to lose the collected calm she'd carried about her all afternoon. "Do you know what that meant?"

"He can fly alien ships, big deal."

"He was assigned to a mission that saved many lives, entire planets, across two galaxies," Natalia said. She got to her feet. "We both know exactly what who are, James, what we have done. But our son has done so much more than we could ever could."

James hunched over, resting his elbow on his thigh. His back had tightened up with the tension from the argument, and he was having a hard time holding back tears of pain. "Good for him," was all James could say with a flat voice.

He stared at the ground, willing his muscles to relax. A tiny voice at the back of his head was pointing out that those pills he'd flushed sure would have been welcome now, for all the good that did.

In a minute, Natalia's feet moved into his field of vision. He glanced up as Natalia out a glass of water and a small pill bottle. "Ibuprofen," she said, "It might help."

She was gone before he could think to thank her.

He pried the lid off the bottle and took three of the pills into his mouth with some of the water. He lay on his back on the floor and waited for his stomach acid to eat through the pills' coating.

"Sergeant."

James sighed. "What is it, Jarvis?"

"Colonel Sheppard has asked me to pass along a message to you."

Damn it. Couldn't James just writhe on the floor in peace? "Good for him."

Jarvis ignored him. "Colonel Sheppard has asked that once you finish the report on Area 51, instead of focusing on Isis, that you should perhaps provide a detailed report on each theft of Goa'uld technology."

"Why the hell not?" James said sarcastically. "Does he also want to know how many licks it takes to get to the centre of a lollipop?"

"Would you like me to pose that question to him?"

James put his arm over his face. "No," he said, voice muffled by his sleeve. "Please tell Colonel Sheppard that yes sir, I'll get those reports to him right away, _sir_."

"Of course," Jarvis demurred before James could throw another sir into that response. Of course, Sheppard had told James to stop calling him sir, but James couldn't think of any other way to address the man. _Son_ was right the hell out, and Sheppard probably would write him up if he tried the ‘ma'am' thing again.

An enlisted man calling an officer by his first name wasn't going to happen. Doing so would get him disciplined by the brass or slapped around the barracks for brown-nosing. Yeah, so he'd called Captain Rogers ‘Steve' during the war, but that was different, it wasn't like Steve was an actual _captain_ —

James pressed his hand against his eyes. He didn't want to think about Steve, or about the war, or Europe or Hydra or _anything_.

He lay like that for another few minutes, until the awareness of how pathetic he was drove him to his feet. He shuffled to the kitchen, half-hoping that Natalia would be in the bathroom, but no such luck. She was sitting at the table, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared down at a steaming cup of tea.

He didn't say anything as he moved to take the seat opposite her, and she didn't look up.

"So," James said. "You may have noticed that I'm a bit of a mess."

Natalia's gaze lifted, her eyes focusing on his face. It was intimidating to be the focus on the Black Widow's scrutiny, but James pushed on.

"And you done things for me and I never said anything and I should have."

Without a word, Natalia stood. She circled the table. When she was beside him, she slid onto his lap and hugged him tight.

James wrapped his arm around Natalia's waist and pressed his cheek against her shoulder. How many months had he thought about this, of being in Natalia's company again, having her hold him like this? All his worry and fears lodged in his throat, choking him as he held Natalia tighter.

She stroked his hair and held him while he breathed through the moment. Eventually, he loosened his grip on Natalia's hip.

"Why are you putting up with me?" he whispered into Natalia's shoulder.

Natalia sat back and touched his chin, making him look at her. "I'm not ‘putting up' with you," she said. "You're here because you're safe with me. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"But why?" he breathed.

Natalia kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his cheek. "Because that's what we do," she told him. "A very long time ago, you broke orders and saved my life. When I asked you why, you said that you and I, that's what we do. We save each other when we can't save ourselves." Natalia shifted in his lap, slipping one arm over his right shoulder. He kept his hand on her waist, slipping his fingers under the fabric of her shirt to rest against her skin. "After they faked your death in Romania, I spent years thinking about that."

James stared at Natalia, at a complete loss. "When did I say that?"

Natalia looked at him for a long moment. "It was in Belarus, in seventy-six, in the winter. They had sent me to infiltrate Seth's compound."

James swallowed at his growing panic. Nothing she said made any connection with him. Not Belarus, not the year, not the name. "What, uh…" He cleared his throat. "What happened?"

Natalia cupped his cheek with her hand and he wasn't sure he could stand the understanding pity in her eyes. "They thought that a man going by the name of Seth was running a people smuggling operation in Belarus, using a cult as cover. I was sent in as one of the prospective disciples. It was autumn when I went in and it took me a few months to work my way around to figure out what was going on."

She leaned against his body, her breath soft against his cheek. Her fingers plucked at his shirt, a nervous gesture that made James' gut clench.

"Somehow my cover was broken and the ringleader found out who I was. He tried to get me to talk, but when he realized that I wouldn't, he decided to make an example of me."

James knew that tone of voice, knew what her words meant, and his heart ached for her.

"When I realized that, I tried to fight back but he was too strong and too fast, even for me. He was trying to kill me and he nearly succeeded. I barely managed to kill him but it was too late. His disciples had set fire to the compound to destroy the evidence and I got out in time but there was a blizzard and I was badly hurt." She ran her thumb over his cheek. "I would have died, but you found me and took me away."

"How did I know you needed help?" James asked.

"You said you had seen the intel and disagreed with the generals that I didn't need additional backup. You disobeyed orders to come after me and you picked me up out of the snow and carried me to safety." Natalia's gaze turned inward, remembering. "It was a dangerous time, you couldn't risk taking me back to the Department X headquarters for medical attention. You found me a doctor, you found us a place to hide out, and you took care of me."

James shook his head. "Why don't I remember any of that?"

"They must have taken the memories from you." Natalia ran her hand down his jaw to rest on his throat. "Or you might have lost those months when Mikhailov wiped your mind."

Anger rose in her voice when she said the name of that man, one of the butchers in the Red Room. James squeezed her in warning, some long-ingrained paranoia of not letting emotions like that out into the air, where they could be used against you.

"It doesn't matter," Natalia said, the heat in her voice not abating. "Mikhailov tried everything he could to destroy us, and it didn't work. John used the evidence Mikhailov gave him to save your life, not end it."

"For you," James interrupted. "John did that for you."

Natalia narrowed her eyes. "John's decision to bring you back into the American military was about you, and what you'd gone through," she said. "If he only wanted to spare your life for me, given what was in Mikhailov's files? You'd be in a military prison on a life sentence." Natalia stood, running her fingers over James' head. "And Isis would still be out there using Coulson as a host. Or she'd have taken me as host by now, and where would that leave us?"

The timer on the stove buzzed, and Natalia went to turn it off. It was just as well, for James needed some time to think through what Natalia had said. What if it had turned out like Natalia said? He'd still have his arm, but Natalia would be dead, or having to watch helplessly from inside her own body as it was used by an alien thing, controlling her movements and her actions and her words. Maybe Isis would have followed through on the threat, and killed James with Natalia's hands.

It didn't matter. That was all in the past and he'd never get his arm back, not with the damage done, not without Extremis.

At the stove, Natalia had finished turning the chicken over in the pan and putting the pan back into the oven. "We can eat soon."

James made himself push the noise in his head away. He would think about these things later, when Natalia wasn't looking at him quite so carefully. "It smells really good."

Natalia smiled at him then, a bright wide smile that made her look much younger. "You must eat well," she said, throwing a thick Russian accent onto English words. "Must fatten you up for winter."

"It's nearly April."

"You can use it, you're nothing but skin and muscle." She moved about the kitchen, reaching for a bowl, plucking a sharp knife from the rack. She deftly began to chop vegetables into the bowl, her long hair hanging over one shoulder.

James couldn't quite remember when Natalia had learned how to cook. Certainly not in her childhood; the few training missions they were on before her thirteenth year, he had needed to do the cooking – she could barely roast a rabbit over a fire. Years later, however, her ability to cook had become an integral part of her cover.

"Did you ever mind being sent on a mission undercover into the kitchen?" James asked as he joined Natalia at the counter.

"No," Natalia said. "I preferred it."

"Why?"

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "If they sent me in as a mistress or a girlfriend, I would be expected to act like one," she said. "In a house where I was the nursemaid, the father expected favors and the mother felt threatened, they would be on their guard. As a chef, the men rarely bothered me and I had easy access to the knives. Besides," Natalia said, dropping a handful of chopped tomatoes into the bowl. "It was easier, not to have to care for someone else's children."

James bowed his head. He knew why Natalia hated being sent in as a nursemaid, after what happened with General Drakov.

"Cooking is easy," Natalia went on. "If you want a difficult cover, try being Tony Stark's personal assistant."

James frowned at her. "SHIELD sent you in as Stark's assistant? When?"

"A few years ago." Natalia reached for the bundle of herbs on the counter. "He was a handful but then again, he was dying. I got to stab a needle into his neck, that was rather cathartic."

"And after all that, Stark trusts you?"

"We came to an understanding. It lets us work together." She chopped the herbs and scattered them over the vegetables in the bowl. "Do you remember Anton Vanko?"

James thought for a moment. The name was familiar. It made him think of Minsk, and sitting in a hollowed out office complex waiting to shoot someone in the head. The memory of the situation helped him to remember where and when he had heard the name. "Early sixties, he defected to America. There was some chatter about having him killed before he could trade State secrets for refuge, but then he met some American inventor and our superiors wanted to see what came of that collaboration."

"That was Howard Stark," Natalia said. "Vanko and Stark had a falling out after they developed the arc reactor technology and Vanko was deported back to the Soviet Union. When he couldn't make the arc reactor technology work on his own, he was sent to Siberia for fifteen years."

"When was this?" James asked, not sure if this was another gap in his memory or not.

"Sixty-seven."

Not a gap, then. James knew he had been in stasis from 1966 until they thawed him out to go after Natalia in New England in 1969.

"After Tony announced to the world that he was Iron Man, Vanko's son came after Tony to avenge his father's death. It happened while I was monitoring Tony."

"Did you take care of things?"

The corner of Natalia's mouth curled up in a smile. She knew what he meant by _take care of things_. "Tony and Lt. Colonel James Rhodes took down Vanko at the Stark Expo. I took care of the rest."

James leaned over and kissed the top of Natalia's head. "I always admired your efficiency in such matters."

Natalia picked up a carrot. "It was one of those situations that could have been handled more efficiently if someone had been paying attention," she said, and there was professional disapproval in her voice. "Spies these days, they don't have any appreciation for the way things should be."

"You sound like an old woman."

"I am an old woman." Natalia efficiently shredded the carrot into the bowl. "Go get ready for dinner."

"I'm always ready for dinner," James said. He was tempted to sit at the table and wait for Natalia to put dinner in front of him, but that sort of behavior was old-fashioned even when James was a boy. He moved around the kitchen, looking in cupboards and drawers, and managed to set out the plates and cutlery as Natalia arranged the salad and the chicken and the potatoes on the table.

The food tasted even better than it smelled. Natalia didn't say anything when James used his fingers to eat the chicken off the bone. Instead, she spoke of current events, filling James in on the intelligence community as much as she could without going into SHIELD secrets.

The conversation helped James settle in on the state of the world. He knew what he had seen in his own explorations since waking from the stasis tube, but hearing Natalia's interpretation helped him to place his own interpretation into context outside his own observations.

After dinner, James helped Natalia with the dishes as best he could. When the kitchen was tidied, she pulled James into the living room and settled down with him again on the couch. James sat, tired and aching, with a full stomach for the first time in days.

"How is your report?" Natalia asked.

"I keep thinking I've missed something," James said, rubbing his eyes. "And I don't know what Sheppard wants to hear."

"He wants to know how to prevent anyone else from breaking into Area 51," Natalia said. "I know I have some ideas."

"Do you want to read what I've got so far?" James asked, looking down at Natalia. There was something in her voice that he wasn't quite certain of. He'd been hearing it whenever Natalia spoke of her son, and the uncertainty was uncomfortable. It was part of her life in which he had no place.

"If I may," Natalia said. She leaned forward and moved the displayed report so she could read it from the beginning. "Americans can be so certain of their infallibility, they can miss the obvious."

"So can Russians," James pointed out. He rested his hand on the small of Natalia's back, felling her shift and move as she looked over her shoulder at him.

"Any empire that thinks of itself as too powerful to ever topple is the most likely to fall into flames," she said.

"This is an old argument," James said. He slipped his hand under her shirt to rest on her hip. "Empires come and go, others rise to take their place. That's human nature."

"It's also human nature that sometimes, a falling empire has a little help." Natalia turned back to the display.

"Every generation thinks it knows better than the one that came before it," James agreed. "It was like that in the war, all us just wishing the old men would understand what it was like in the trenches."

"Do you remember much about the war?" Natalia asked, not looking away from the display.

James let out a breath. "Some of it," he said slowly. "The fighting, yeah, but more the cold. Some weeks, everything was wet and cold." He shook his head. "The only thing we had sometimes was cigarettes. I never smoked so much in my life."

And because his memory was a treacherous thing, it pulled him back, from smoking cheap cigarettes on the front, back to New York, cigarette between his lips, huddling out on the front stoop in the cold because Steve's asthma was aggravated whenever James smoked in their apartment.

Grateful that Natalia was looking at the display, not him, James pulled himself up and shook his head to dispel the ghosts in his head. "Any idea on what else we want to tell Sheppard?" he asked.

In answer, Natalia opened a keyboard on the display and began to type. "You know how much I love to advise the American military on their inefficiencies," she said in a dry voice.

James couldn't help smiling. "Is that before or after you kick their asses into next week?"

Natalia paused in her typing to turn around and kiss James full on the mouth. "Like you enjoy that any less," she said when she came up for air.

"You keep kissing me like that, you can kick my ass any day of the week." He meant the words to be a joke, but something in his chest shifted into panic at the idea that one day, Natalia might push him away, should push him away, after what he had become.

Natalia raised her eyebrow at him. "I may take you up on that, sergeant."

She turned back to the display and it gave James a chance to breathe through his panic attack. He knew what Natalia should do, and he also knew that he might not be able to stand it if she pushed him away, not after he had already lost so much.

* * *

James slept badly and woke early, chased from sleep by pain and nightmares of the small red-haired girl. These nightmares had been of mundane tasks – walking with the child to gather wood in a forest, sitting with her by a fire, carrying her on his back as he walked through the forest.

The horror that had finally driven him awake had been of walking into a small hut, and seeing the child holding the hand of a decaying corpse.

Now, he lay motionless in the bed, staring at the clock's red glow while Natalia slept beside him, her breathing soft and even.

As the hour turned to five, James tried to think of what he was supposed to do that day. Sheppard wanted him to report on stealing the Goa'uld objects, which would be relatively easy, now that he had mastered the computer interface in the apartment. Just boring.

He'd already sent off the Area 51 report the previous night, so there was nothing left he could change there. Natalia's contributions had been valuable, as always. She was such a brilliant tactician and her understanding of human behavior and motivations helped her tie together their joint recommendations in such a way that the brass at Area 51 would likely see the value in the report, instead of feeling like it was a slap in the face at their own failures.

That was where Natalia excelled, James thought as he watched another minute tick past on the clock. Her approach was subtle and psychological, manipulative without seeming to be so. She was a stiletto dagger in the night, a quiet danger.

Where as he was a blunt instrument, a metal fist to the face, a bullet to the heart. When they worked together, they balanced the other perfectly.

No more. Natalia was her own woman now, a solo agent of skill and renown, and she didn't need some maimed anachronism slowing her down.

Although James was trying to be silent, he couldn't help the sigh he let escape his lips at the thought of Natalia leaving him behind, letting him go. At the sound, Natalia stirred. James winced. He hadn't meant to wake her.

Letting out a sleepy sound, Natalia turned onto her side and cuddled up against James. "Why are you awake?" she asked, her words sleep-slurred.

James blinked at the clock. "It must be the time change," he lied.

Natalia wriggled against his body, moving up to kiss his neck. At the touch of her lips on his skin, James went still. His body was still stubbornly refusing to show any physical signs of interest in Natalia, not even when she was half-naked and pressed against him in her bed.

He couldn't have her knowing how broken he truly was.

He waited for her to say something, to press the point, to ask why he hadn't made a move towards her in days, but all Natalia did was to kiss his neck again, then she moved away from him to stretch out under the covers.

James' relief at not being found out was quickly crushed by the humiliating realization that, of course Natalia didn't want to be intimate with him. Why would anyone want to be with someone so grotesque? He could barely stand to look at his own reflection; how could anyone else stand to be near him?

With a groan, Natalia sat up in the bed and leaned over James to turn on the bedside lamp. "I should get to the gym," she said as she pushed her hair out of her face.

"It's early," James said when he had his emotions under control.

Natalia slid over James, pausing on the edge of the bed to touch his cheek. "I've been off my training schedule for a while."

James lay still, looking up at Natalia in the soft light. She was so beautiful. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Some cardio, then some weight training." Natalia smiled, the curve of her lips gentle in the dim light. "You can come with me, if you would like."

Remembering how he'd faltered in simply walking around the big ballroom the day before, the last thing James wanted to do was to attempt a workout with Natalia watching him. "Maybe another day," he hedged. "I've got those reports to work on."

"Another time." Natalia got to her feet and started getting dressed. "I should be back by eight. I'll make breakfast then."

James sat up, his back protesting at the movement. "I can do that," he said. "For when you're back." He could at least do that; he only needed one hand to stir porridge.

Natalia finished adjusting her bra and reached for a shirt. "That sounds lovely," she said when the shirt was over her head. "Everything should be easy to find."

She stepped into a pair of track pants and picked up her gym shoes. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she quickly laced them up.

"The tea and coffee are in the cupboard on the left side of the kettle," she said. With another smile, she leaned over to kiss James on the lips. "If you change your mind, Jarvis can bring you down."

And with that, Natalia bounced to her feet and left the room.

James stayed sitting until he heard the apartment's front door close, then he lay back down and pulled the blanket over his head. He wondered if he could just lay there until he died of dehydration, anything to put him out of his pathetic misery. But no, that would take days and Natalia would be back in a few hours. Besides, he didn't really mean it. He wasn't suicidal.

He wasn't.

Really, he wasn't.

James pushed the blanket away and made himself stand, ignoring the strain of his muscles. He had tasks to complete for his commanding officer. Work first.

In a few minutes, he was settling onto the living room sofa again with a cup of water. "Good morning, Jarvis."

"And to you," Jarvis said immediately. The display sprang to life, showing the social media tracking screens James had set up the day before.

James took a sip of water. "Is anything interesting happening?"

One screen moved to the front. "You may find this to be of interest," Jarvis said. "Overnight, there was a development in the Hong Kong markets. In addition, political scandal is erupting in Ukraine." More screens popped up.

James glanced at the time. Half past five. If Natalia wasn't going to be back until eight, then he could spare half an hour to stay current on international developments. After all, if he was going to be of use to anyone, he needed to know what was stirring.

"Jarvis, show me what you've got."

* * *

 The email came in from Sheppard just after seven. _Good report,_ the email read. _You think doubling up on the perimeter fence would prevent any incursions?_

James paused in his recitation about breaking into an estate in Milan to steal a necklace, and shot back a response. _Increased patrols would work better. Fences can be cut, surveillance cameras can be hacked._ He read over his response, then added, _There is a 75% larger chance that any infiltration or theft will be undertaken by someone with security access to the facility in the first place. Recommend security detail work independent on-shift and not coordinate unless in event of attack._

He sent the email and went back to his report.

Three minutes later, other email. _That's a healthy dose of paranoia you've got there._

James didn't hesitate. _What I've got is years of human behavior to look at. Betrayal from the inside is easier than breaking down the walls._

He sent off the email, then stood. He wasn't sure how much more report writing, or rather talking, he could do without breakfast. But he had told Natalia he would wait for her. Maybe he could go see if Natalia wanted to finish her training early.

"Jarvis, where's Natasha?"

"Agent Romanoff is in the training room," Jarvis said. "I can take you there."

"Nah, just point the way," James said. "Up or down?"

With Jarvis's instructions in mind, James headed out to the stairs and walked down three flights to the training floor. He slipped through the door soundlessly on bare feet, making his way past treadmills and other various pieces of equipment. He could hear sounds of activity around the corner, the sounds of impact against flesh, the heavy breathing and grunts of physical exertion.

Then he heard a male voice say, "Geeze, Natasha, you're sure not holding back," and James froze.

That was Steve's voice.

"If you wanted someone to hold back on you, go train on the Helicarrier," Natalia said. Then came the sound of fists hitting a body, a quick _thud-thud-thud_. "You can find some new recruits to pound on."

"That's not fun," Steve complained, and James was at the bend in the wall now, could lean forward to see the training area.

The floor was covered with mats, and Steve and Natalia circled each other, hands up. Natalia had wrapped her hands for the fight while Steve was bare-fisted. Both of them were flushed and sweaty, and as James watched them, a wave of hot jealousy stabbed into his stomach. Steve was sparring with Natalia, his Natalia, like he had some right to be anywhere near her.

Then Steve made a quick jab at Natalia's head, and any jealousy was knocked away by a sudden, blinding wave of anxiety and fear and panic.

(Falling.)

(A knife penetrating his body. Falling.)

Natalia ducked and rolled, landing a blow on Steve's thigh as she evaded his grasp. She knew James was there, but she didn't stop the fight. Smart, James thought, his heart in his throat. Don't alert the enemy to a change in the situation.

He didn't know why he thought of Steve as the enemy.

"Are you thinking about Chicago?" Steve asked, faking with his left, then landing a punch on Natalia's shoulder with his right.

"Clint asked me to—" Natalia broke off and dove at Steve, her arms around his head and her legs around his chest. She tried to spin him to the ground, but he just rolled with it and used her momentum to slam her onto her back.

Natalia brought her feet around to the front of Steve's body and moved them down, as if to kick him in the groin. Sure enough, Steve flinched back at the threat to his testicles, and Natalia got enough leverage to kick him to the side.

Natalia spun up, bouncing on the balls of her feet "Clint asked me to make sure his operation ended well," she said breathlessly. "I did what he wanted. End of story."

Steve slowly got to his feet. "Yeah, but people died."

"Bad people." Natalia tossed her hair out of her eyes. "I'm not going to lose much sleep over that."

Steve held up his hands. "You win," he said, breathing heavily. "That's three for you."

Even as James watched Steve move away from Natalia, the threat and danger was still there, big and blond and strong. Someone who had let him fall. Someone who had driven a knife into his ribs and betrayed him to the enemy.

No, that didn't make any sense. James remembered falling off the icy Hydra train, Steve reaching for him, but there was also a knife in Steve's hand and it was summer and dusty and he'd only fallen a few feet, from the train to the rocky ground beside the tracks, the knife still in his ribs. And it had been Steve who had stabbed him, Steve the way he never was growing up, big and blond and strong and mean, with the blood of so many innocents on his hands.

Something was wrong, something was _wrong_ , and James didn't have any time to sort it out because Steve was right there, big and blond and strong and too close to Natalia, close enough to hit her, to break her neck, to betray her to her death and she would never see it coming.

James stepped around the bend in the wall, his step silent on the mat. Natalia looked at him, an eyebrow raised, and at that Steve turned around. "Bucky!" Steve blurted, taking a step towards James. "I didn't know you were coming down here."

Steve's surprise was written wide across his face, and all James wanted to do was to knock Steve over and punch him in the face.

(Falling. A knife in his ribs.)

"Yeah," James said, his mouth so dry the word stuck on his tongue. "I'll just bet you didn't."

"James," Natalia said repressively, but he wasn't going to stop now, he couldn't stop now, not when the memories were splintering in his mind, of big and blond and betrayal.

"You couldn't find someone smaller to beat up?" James demanded, getting closer to Steve with every step. "Finally time for a little payback on everything that happened to you as a kid?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Steve exclaimed. "That is not what's happening! Why would you think that?"

Natalia watched James with wide eyes. But he couldn't think about Natalia, not right now, not with Steve right there, not with the memory of the knife in James' chest, of falling (pushed) from the train, of betrayal.

"Did you think I wasn't going to remember anything?" James yelled, getting in Steve's face. If Steve struck out now, James was too close to get away, but he didn't care anymore. "You think I wasn't going to remember you stuck a knife in me and pushed me off that train?"

Steve had gone dead pale, but James couldn't stop, not with the broken glass memories splintering in his head.

"What was that, payback?" James spat, stepping forward until he bumped into Steve's chest. "All those years when you were the smaller one, now you're all big and you didn't want someone around who knew you when you were just some skinny punk?"

Steve shoved James back, sending him stumbling over the mats. James nearly went down, but he caught his balance with his one arm and managed to stay on his feet. "What's wrong with you?" Steve asked, going from white-pale to the flushed red of anger. "How the hell could you think that?"

"Do you have any idea what I went through?" James demanded, dropping his right shoulder and getting ready for this to become physical. "I spent months in that prison camp, and it was all your fault!"

As soon as the words had left his mouth, James knew that was wrong. He'd fallen off the Hydra train and ended up on ice, not in a prison camp, but that was what was churning in his mind. Before Steve could say anything else, Natalia was suddenly standing in front of James. "Where was this?" she asked urgently, looking up at him. "James?"

He shook his head and moved back. Nothing made any sense, _not anything_.

"Soldier, report!" Natalia ordered in Russian, her voice steely. "Tell me the location of the prison camp!"

"Near Syr Darya," he choked out, the memory of dry summer dust making him gag. "I don't—"

Something was terribly wrong, he could tell by the alarmed expression on Natalia's face.

"You were in that prison camp in the late fifties," Natalia said, her words moving back to English. "You told me about it after you were retrieved, when I was still a child."

"No," James said, his breath catching in his side. "No, it was Steve who did…"

"Vladimir Osinov," Natalia said, reaching for him. The touch of her hands on his body was a shock. "He betrayed and murdered the team you were working with. You confronted him on a train through Kazakhstan and he stabbed you." She laid her hand on his chest, over the raised scar from that knife of so many years before. "You told me this. You knew this."

"But Steve…" James looked over Natalia's head, and saw Steve's face. The man stared at James with an expression of complete and utter devastation.

"Steve tried to reach for you on that train and he didn't get to you in time," Natalia said. "Osinov tried to kill you over a decade later. Two different events."

"Then why do I remember it like that?" James demanded, his voice rising until he was shouting.

Natalia pressed her lips together. "When your memories came back, they must have gotten mixed up."

A horrified laugh erupted from James' chest. "I just got _mixed up_?" He laughed again, only the sound fell into the room like a rock. Steve was still staring at James like the world was ending.

He had to get out of there. He had to get away. Turning, James staggered around the wall, to the door of the training room and out. He didn't look behind him. He didn't need to. He would never forget that look on Steve's face.

He remembered a man with Steve's face stabbing him in the chest. A man who laughed and sneered as James stumbled, fell off the train.

James hit the stairs at a run. The vertical rise of three flights of stairs soon slowed him down, and by the time he was on Natalia's floor, his vision was dancing with grey spots and he could barely breathe.

He remembered Steve reaching for him, yelling for him to take his hand. Reaching for Steve, and then falling.

He blundered into the darkened apartment, tripping over the side table and falling hard, his left side hitting the ground. The sudden sharp pain in his left shoulder pulled James back to himself.

He knew pain. Sometimes, pain could be clarifying.

"Jarvis!" James said as he hauled himself up onto the sofa. The lights went on around him. "Jarvis, are you there?"

"I am," came Jarvis's calm voice. "With what can I assist you?"

James took a few deep breaths. "Don't play dumb, I know you were watching in the gym."

"I monitor all public areas of the tower," Jarvis said promptly. "I am given to understand that you are experiencing problems with your memory."

"Fuck that," James said. "I need you to help me to hack into an old Soviet database."

"I am not certain—"

"I've got the passwords and the location," James interrupted. "They'll never see you coming."

Jarvis was silent for few moments. "I may be able to help," he said cautiously after a while. "The contents of this database, what are they?"

James pushed his hair back from his face. Shards of memory stabbed in his head, his own mind lying to him. "It's part of the Soviets' Department X database, as much as this organization could savage after the Cold War ended." He took another deep breath. "I don't know how much is there, but I know how to get in."

In response, Jarvis opened the display over the table with an empty cursor. James typed in the computer's location and the access name and password. The password was a mix of letters and numbers and was over fifty characters long, and James knew he only had once chance to enter the string correctly before the access password was burned.

He hit enter, and the screen blanked for a long moment.

[ACCESS GRANTED]

He was in.

"What information do you wish to access?" Jarvis asked, taking control of the interface.

"Operative Vladimir Osinov," James said, gripping an handful of the couch cushion. The pain in his left shoulder was abating, but there was an unpleasant wetness against the fabric that made him think he had split some stitches. "Operational between 1953 and 1961."

An photograph appeared on the display, along with a personal record. James stared at the picture, of a blond man, muscular and tall. The man looked at the camera with arrogance on his features.

He looked nothing like Steve.

James let go of the cushion and wrapped his arm around his chest. "Can you pull up a picture of Steve?" he asked, hating how his voice shook.

Jarvis moved the photo of Osinov to the side and opened a picture of Steve Rogers. The photos were sized for comparison. Steve's chest was larger, his hands less thick than Osinov's. Osinov's eyes were wider, his nose flatter. Looking at the pictures on the screen, James didn't know how he could ever have mistaken either man for the other.

But in his head, it didn't matter. James remembered Steve driving a knife into his chest, remembered Steve laughing at him in the dry dust of the train.

"Would you like more images for comparison?" Jarvis asked quietly.

"Yes," James breathed. He stared at the pictures on the display, the physical comparisons between his best friend, and the man who had tortured and imprisoned him.

Why was his memory of these two men so mixed up? What was wrong in his head, that he could have ever thought that Steve Rogers, his best friend in the entire world, would have tried to kill him?

What else had James remembered wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Winter Soldier plays piano as a method of metal arm physio in the Red Room" idea is not mine, sadly – I saw it on Tumblr about 2 years ago and for the life of me can't find the source. Let me know if you know. I had to include it because seriously, have you ever seen Sebastian Stan play the piano? Awesome.
> 
> If you are uncertain as to what's happening with the little girl in Bucky's nightmares, and you haven't read "[Baba Yaga's Children](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1004733)" (the previous story in this series), you might want to (although of course it's not quite that easy).


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Natalia returned to her apartment a few minutes later.

Hearing her in the hallway, James quickly blanked the interface into the Soviet database, leaving only Steve's picture hovering over the table when Natalia entered the room.

He didn't say anything, just pretended to stare at Steve Roger's military service photo.

For a moment, there was stillness, then a small _snick_ as the door closed. "Are you all right?" Natalia asked from behind the couch.

"Sure," James bit off. "I feel fantastic. You want to go dancing?"

"I mean physically." Natalia came around the side of the couch and sat on the small table. She was still in her training clothes and the fabric clung to her body, damp with sweat. "The side table is on the ground and there's blood on your shirt."

James reached up to his left side. The empty shirtsleeve was tacky with liquid and he hadn't even noticed. He clenched his hand into a fist. "I fell in the dark, it was a stupid mistake," he muttered.

Natalia pressed her lips together. "James."

"What do you want me to say?" he demanded. Irritably, he swiped at the display until Steve's photograph disappeared. "That I feel great? Fuck, Natalia, even the memories I thought were real are all mixed up! How is that supposed to make me feel?"

He shot to his feet, staggering only slightly as he stalked towards the bathroom. Inside the bright white room, he yanked his shirt over his head and threw it into the sink. Sure enough, his fall had ripped two of the stitches through the skin, but the bleeding was superficial and was already starting to clot. He grabbed a washcloth from the rack and wet it to wash the blood away.

Gradually, he became aware that Natalia stood in the bathroom doorway. She didn't speak and he didn't have anything to say as he tried to contain the rage in his chest.

It wasn't Natalia's fault that his memory was broken. It wasn't Natalia's doing that James had spent the past year blaming his childhood best friend for pain and torture properly laid at another man's feet.

The air in the room was thick, pressing down on James' chest. With a start, he realized it had been days since he had been outside under an open sky.

He needed air. He needed to get out of there.

Without a word, he pushed past Natalia into the bedroom. He grabbed one of the dark shirts on the dresser and jerked it over his head. The empty left sleeve rubbed at the raw flesh torn by the stitches, but James refused to let such a minor irritation distract him. He managed to pull on socks without falling over, then stepped into the new shoes Natalia had bought for him. Of course the shoes fit him perfectly, yet one more small thing Natalia had done for him and he hadn't even noticed.

He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of there.

Going into the living room, James found Natalia waiting for him. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out," James said curtly as he pulled on his new jacket. The empty sleeve hung loose at his side. "A walk or something."

"Did you have breakfast?" she asked, and it was such a non sequitur that he turned to look at her. "You need to eat."

The last thing he wanted was food, not with the way his stomach churned every time he thought about Steve and what had happened in the gym. What happened decades ago. "No, I need to get _out_ _of here_."

Natalia went over to the far wall and pushed back the cloth covering her arsenal. "There's a diner over on Third and Forty-Fifth that you might like," she said, pulling out a small lock box. Opening it, she pulled out an envelope, from which she extracted a handful of American cash notes. "North side of the street."

"I'm not hungry," James protested.

Natalia gave him a look as she put the box away. "It's only a suggestion." She crossed the room and tucked the folded bills into the left inside pocket in James' jacket, where he could easily get at it with his right hand. Then she handed him a cell phone. "It's a burner prototype Tony developed. It links back directly to Jarvis if you need anything."

He put the phone in his pocket. "I just…" he said, not sure what he wanted to say to Natalia. "I need to clear my head, Natalia."

"I know." Natalia straightened the jacket on his shoulders, smoothing the shirt down his chest. "Do what you need to do. And when you're done," she added, taking his lapels in her hands and making him look at her. "You come back to me."

Her voice was low and there was a fire in her eyes that James hadn't seen in a very long time. He nodded, and with that Natalia released him.

He felt her eyes on his back as he left of the apartment.

In the elevator and heading down, James slouched against the elevator wall. His heart was racing and he just needed some fresh air, some place to stretch his legs, some place that he didn't have to worry about misremembering everything, didn't have to worry about Steve Rogers and his stupid face.

How had he _ever_ mixed up Steve with a traitor and a killer?

"Sergeant Barnes," Jarvis said as the elevator descended.

"What?"

"What would you like me to do with your open database searches?"

James started upright, nearly hitting his head on the wall. "Shit!" He had left the database interface open on Natalia's table. An interface with a Russian computer system that held fragments of the old Department X Soviet databases.

A database he hadn't told Natalia about. Mostly because she was in that database, in some form, and he hadn't figured out yet what he was going to do with the information.

"I can close the connection remotely and save your searches," Jarvis interrupted smoothly. "It is one of Agent Romanoff's standing requests, that I terminate her computer access whenever she leaves the physical vicinity of the terminal. If you wish, I can extend that to you as well."

"Yeah, do that," James said urgently. "Just… shit."

In his haste to leave the apartment, he had forgotten all about the database. It was a sloppy move. That, more than anything, told James how much this recent revelation about Steve had shaken him.

He might no longer be the Winter Soldier, but he was still Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and he was _better_ than this, he had to be.

"The interface has been closed," Jarvis said, as the elevator began to slow its descent. "Enjoy your walk."

James pushed himself off the elevator wall and took a moment to balance himself. Without the metal arm to drag him to the side, his back felt crooked and strained, but he would not draw attention to himself by hunching in on himself.

The elevator door opened, and Sgt. Barnes walked out into the world, pleasant and at ease.

The security staff in the lobby was different from the crew on his first day, and James made an effort to remember everyone's face and physical characteristics. Unlike on his first day, few of them looked at him with suspicion as he crossed the expensive lobby on his way to the door.

He stepped out into a noisy, busy New York morning, and the sudden rush of air in his lungs pushed back the noise and clutter in his head.

Taking another deep breath, he put his hand into his jacket pocket and headed toward the river.

All around him was the normal chaos of any other day; people on their way to work and people on their way home from work; some going to the subway and others hailing cabs. This was New York like James remembered it – loud and arrogant and in your face.

It was the most _honest_ city James could remember.

As if to drive the point home, in the road a delivery van nearly hit a bike courier, who screeched to a halt to scream at the driver, who shouted back. James quickly summed up the situation, doubted that it would turn violent, and kept walking.

Give or take seventy years, human behavior never changed.

James put his head down and hurried across a crosswalk before the light changed. It didn't make any sense that he remembered parts of his life so well, the shards of life in New York as a child and a young man, before the War. Those things felt real; more than that, they were truth.

But if his memories were false and he didn't know it… what did that mean for him? If his memories were wrong about someone as important as Steve, he could be mistaken about other things, vital things.

He stopped at an intersection to wait for the light to change. He needed to focus. He was letting his emotions get in the way of a systematic approach to things. Instead of flailing about in self-pity, he needed to figure out what was going on, which of his memories he had actually experienced, and what had been shoved into his head by the Soviets.

More important than that, he needed to separate the overlapping memories. He knew now that he had mixed up his memory of Steve and the mess with Vladimir Osinov. Nothing in his time with Department X had included memories of his life before the Fall. It had taken him waking up in a locked stasis chamber and having to claw his way out of the tube, water filling his lungs as his oxygen ran out, unable to move, to fight his way free—

James stopped dead on the sidewalk. He was working himself up into an anxiety attack and he needed to stop it, _right now_. He could not fall apart in the middle of the city, not where there were police and surveillance equipment on every corner.

He might no longer be the Winter Soldier, but he was still Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and he was better than this.

James breathed deeply, straightened his shoulders, pushed his hair back from his face, and kept going.

It took him about ten minutes to get to the large open plaza by the United Nations Building. He thought about making his way south, but his stomach gave a painful twist, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since dinner the night before.

And he was _starving_.

He turned back towards the city and headed in search of Natalia's diner.

He found it soon enough. It was a small hole-in-the-wall place, chipped paint on the window advertising all-day breakfast and hot coffee. He'd eaten in a thousand places like this around the world, with different languages sprawled across the exterior. All he wanted was a meal and some quiet. If Natalia had recommended this place to him, it would suit his needs.

He pulled open the door and walked into a warm room smelling of hot grease and coffee. The place was half-full, mostly old men. James quickly scanned the room for any threats or familiar faces, but nothing presented itself to his attention.

"Sit down!" came a command from the back of the room. A woman, short and middle-aged, swung across the diner floor with her hands full of plates. "Quit blocking my fire exit!"

The old men guffawed at this, and James slipped into the persona of a working man, here for a midmorning break. He grinned at the waitress as he slipped into a booth near the back of the diner, facing the front door. There was a mirror over the coffee station reflecting the back door, and James could jump up and over the table in case of an attack. It was as defensible a position as one could expect for a breakfast joint.

While he waited for the waitress, he studied his surroundings. The diner's furniture seemed to predate James' enlistment in World War Two. Faded photos lined the walls, of musicians and actors and other vaguely famous faces.

In the kitchen, James could see two people working in tandem, a large bald man in an expanse of white apron and a thin man with a hairnet over his sculpted hair.

Then the waitress was at his table, slapping down napkin-wrapped cutlery and a white mug. "Coffee," she said, hefting the carafe in her left hand. It wasn't a question.

James smiled up at the woman, hoping he didn't look too disreputable. He was seated with his empty sleeve to the interior of the booth, so it was possible she hadn't seen his missing arm. "Sounds wonderful."

"Do you need a menu?" she asked as she expertly splashed liquid into the cup.

"Nah, I'll have whatever's on special."

"Ha!" the waitress barked. "He'll have whatever's on special!"

The bald cook cracked up at that, and the old men chattered amongst themselves as the waitress swept across the floor. James shifted in his seat. He was going to have to have a little chat with Natalia about her recommendations. This wasn't a restaurant; this was performance art.

He sipped at the coffee. It was hot and strong, like it had been sitting on the burner for a while, but it was just what James needed after the morning he'd had.

Sipping slowly, James scanned the diner again. The old men were getting loud about something, ignoring everyone else. Near the door sat a man and two small children, both of them reading comic books while they ate. Along the counter sat a few scattered diners, each on their mobile phones while eating.

James could see why Natalia liked this place.

The waitress came by to top up his coffee a few times while he waited. After the third time, she gave him a frown and said, "You sprung a leak?"

"It's cold out there," James said, raising the cup in a salute. She just rolled her eyes and walked off.

James set the cup down and was contemplating taking off his jacket, when the diner's front door open, and goddamn Steve Rogers walked in.

All James could do was stare, because _really_? His first thought was that Natalia had arranged this, but he dismissed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. Natalia would never be so blatantly manipulative, to send James to a diner and then send Steve after him.

At the door, Steve looked around the room, spotted James in the back, and froze in his tracks.

James wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. He'd left Stark Tower to get a few minutes to himself, with no chance of Steve getting up in his face, and this was what he got. Maybe the universe hated him.

Maybe there was no _maybe_ about it.

Steve straightened his shoulders, then deliberately headed over to James's table.

James rested his hand on the table, empty and loose, where he could grab something to throw at Steve if the man attacked him, but that wasn't likely in this busy place. Or at all, James told himself, firmly reminding himself that Steve Rogers was not Vladimir Osinov. Steve had not knifed James in the gut and thrown him off a train. That was a faulty memory and it was _wrong_.

Steve stopped beside the table. "Mind if I join you?"

James raised his eyebrows. "Last time I checked, it's a free country."

Steve clenched his jaw, but he slid into the booth opposite James without a retort. James fiddled with his mug, not sure what to say. But then, why should he say anything? Steve was the one who barged in on him.

Steve shifted in his seat, his gaze never leaving James' face. "You do something to your head?" he asked after a minute.

"What?"

Steve touched his own temple. "Is that a bruise?"

James took in a breath through his nose and let it out again without speaking. Of course Steve would notice the edge of the bruise on his head, where he'd slammed his head against the bedroom side table the day before. Steve had always noticed James' bruises, be it from fights on the school ground or after a particularly bad day on the front.

The waitress appeared, saving James from having to answer. She beamed down at Steve as she set down a mug and cutlery for him. "Good to see you again, sweetheart," she drawled.

Steve tore his eyes off James and looked up at the waitress, smiling at her. "How's business, Trudy?"

"Oh, you know," the woman said, pouring Steve's coffee, "The cost of everything keeps going up and these louts don't want to pay more for their daily bread."

"How are the kids?" Steve asked, still smiling.

James sighed. He really hadn't wanted to spend the morning watching Steve Rogers interacting with his adoring public. It was just like leave time during the war all over again.

"Expensive and ungrateful," the waitress said. "What'll you have?"

"I'll have the special," Steve said, which sent the eavesdropping old men behind him into snorts of laughter.

The waitress rolled her eyes dramatically. "We got another special!" she shouted at the kitchen, and swept off, taking the coffee pot with her before James could ask for a refill.

"Why is that funny?" James asked.

Steve knocked back half his coffee in one go. "They don't have a special," he said when he surfaced for air. "The cook just throws whatever he wants on a plate. The first time I came in here was at the end of the shift and I basically got what was left over."

"No special treatment for Captain America?" James asked, that familiar annoyance stirring in his gut.

Steve stared at James like he had tried to stab Steve with a fork, and James couldn't stand it anymore, not when the mess with Osinov was still so loud in his head.

He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. He threw a twenty on the table, but Steve reached out and grabbed James' wrist before he could stand. "What are you doing?" Steve demanded, voice low.

James clamped down on his instinct to kick Steve under the table. "Enjoy your breakfast, I'm not up for this right now."

"Stay," Steve said. He let go of James' wrist. "Please."

They were starting to draw attention. James slid back in the booth, pressing his shoulders against the hard booth-back. His heart was still hammering in his chest as he crumbled the greenback in his palm and shoved the bill into his jeans pocket. "Don't grab me again," he said when he could speak.

Steve was pale, but he nodded.

The waitress came up then, a plate in her hands. She eyed them suspiciously. "Everything okay?"

"Of course," Steve said. "Just an old argument."

"Well, take it outside, it's too early for this much testosterone." She slapped the plate down in front of James. "Enjoy."

James raised his eyebrows at the plate. Fried potatoes, fried eggs, sausages and toasted bread. He was pretty sure none of this was on Dr. Keller's recommended healing foods list. He reached for the salt and tucked in.

Steve was slouched down, his hands playing listlessly with his coffee mug as he watched James eat. "How did you find out about this place?" he finally asked.

James swallowed his mouthful and said, "Natalia told me about it when I was heading out this morning. Didn't really feel like sticking around Stark's palace when I knew you were lurking close by."

"Oh." Steve stared into the depths of his cup.

"What about you?" James asked, not really sure why he was engaging with Steve.

Steve glanced up. He had lines of tension at the corners of his eyes, just like he'd had before the serum. Instead of making Steve more familiar, the stark differences in this man from James' childhood friend were alienating. "I found this place last year, after the Chitauri invasion. I told Barton last fall, he must have told Natasha."

"Which leads us to this very moment." James smiled with no real warmth.

The waitress came over with the coffee pot and Steve's breakfast. The plate held a stack of pancakes and a mound of scrambled eggs. "Enjoy," the waitress said to Steve, sounding sincere this time. She set a sticky syrup jug on the table and zipped off.

James looked down at his plate. "I should have asked for the Captain America special," he grumbled.

"It's not like that," Steve insisted, pouring syrup over his pancakes. "Do you want some?"

Before James could point out that he was a grown man and could order his own damn pancakes, two small figures inched their way up to the table. The children from the front of the diner was standing and staring at Steve, comic books clutched in tiny hands. Up close like this, James revised his estimate of their age down. The older one, a girl, could be no more than six. She shuffled forward, the little boy hiding behind her. Her eyes were big and round and focused on Steve.

James kicked Steve under the table. "It's for you," he said quietly, then shoved a slice of toast into his mouth.

Steve turned his head, and smiled wearily at the children. "Hi," he said.

The girl's eyes grew even wider. "Hi," she breathed. The little boy gaped up at Steve, his mouth hanging open. "Are you Captain America?" she asked in Spanish.

"Yes, I am," Steve said carefully. James gave the diner a once-over, to see if anyone picked up on the admission, but the old men were deliberately ignoring the conversation and the people at the counter were too far away to hear.

The little girl held out her comic book with trembling hands. "Can you sign my comic?" she whispered in Spanish.

The blank expression on Steve's face told James that Steve had not necessarily expanded his linguistics to include Spanish. "She wants your autograph," James said to Steve in English. To the little girl, he asked in Spanish, "What is your name?"

"Valeria," the girl said as Steve took her comic book and dug around in his jacket for a pen. "This is Tomas," she added, hauling the little boy around in front of her.

The little boy, who could be no more than four, clutched his comic book tight to his chest as he stared at Steve.

A needle of envy dug into James' mind, that it was Steve who these children looked to with such adoration in their eyes. He pushed that thought away as infantile. Being recognizable was a liability to someone in his line of work.

Or his previous line of work.

Steve found a pen and was carefully drawing a tiny Captain American shield on the cover of the girl's comic book. "How do I write _for Valeria, a superhero_?" he asked James quietly.

James told him, and as Steve focused on the comic, James caught the eye of the little boy. With a theatrical wink, James reached across the table with his fork and speared two of Steve's pancakes. He lifted them back onto his own plate before Steve looked up.

The little boy started to giggle, and Steve glanced around as he handed the girl back her comic. "What?"

James looked up from where he was innocently cutting up a pancake with his fork. "What what?"

The little boy had his hands over his mouth and he was laughing full out. Steve made a show of looking at his plate, then all around the table as if searching for the missing pancakes. With a shrug, he reached for the little boy's comic book.

Soon, the children were in possession of their newly signed comics books and were toddling back over to their father. Steve dropped the pen on the table and sighed.

"You look like you have experience at that," James observed.

"Yeah." Steve slouched in his seat and picked up his fork. "Used to have a lot of kids come up after the USO tours, it's no hardship."

James looked at Steve. That tone of voice was familiar, even if James hadn't heard it in over seventy years. Steve wasn't saying everything, and the tone meant it was about the fairer sex. "Just kids?" James asked, loading doubt and innuendo onto the words.

Steve flushed, a faint pink color spreading across his cheeks. "Not just kids," he said, meeting James' eyes.

James let out a low whistle. "Any girl ever ask you to sign her, uh…" He let his voice trail off suggestively.

Steve kicked James' foot. "No," he said, sounding scandalized. "I did have one in San Francisco who wanted me to sign her garter."

James froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. "And did you?"

Steve gave him a look he remembered from long days on the playground at recess.

"You sonofabitch," James swore, putting his fork back on the plate. "And here I was feeling sorry for you and your complete inability to find a clue."

"Nothing else happened," Steve said.

James shook his head. "I take it back, you're hopeless." He reached for his mug and drank the last of his coffee.

Steve gave James another look as he went back to eating the remains of his breakfast. James, feeling rather full, pushed his plate away and sat back, resting his hand on the table. Here, out among strangers, was the first time he felt he'd been able to function normally since he'd had his arm ripped off. Natalia had been so solicitous in taking of him, but he'd been so afraid that would mean he wouldn't be able to function on his own.

Well, he'd proven his fears partly false. Here he was, a grown man, able to enter a diner and order food like anyone else.

He still had no idea if he could hold a gun or survive an attack, but that was for another morning.

Still intent on his plate, Steve asked, "Are we going to talk about this morning?"

"Nope," James said immediately.

Steve glanced up. "Not now, or not ever?"

James could see a few curious faces turned their way. He rubbed his eyes. "I'm pretty sure we're going to need Natalia to explain."

Steve shoved the last piece of pancake into his mouth. "Why'd you call her that?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"Natalia? It's her name."

Steve managed to swallow with the aid of his coffee. "I've only ever heard her call herself Natasha."

"It's her real name, from before everything," James said. This turn in the conversation was making him uncomfortable. He didn't want to talk about Natalia with Steve, not about her real name, not about the first time she'd asked James to call her Natalia. It was a time he only vaguely remembered himself, of a girl with red hair who had pulled a gun on him and shot him.

Natalia had been a little girl then, hardly more than a baby, with (messy) (braided) red hair and enough training under her belt in the Red Room to draw blood from the Winter Soldier.

James shook his head to dispel his gathering headache. He had been thinking too much of children in recent days, children who lived and children who died.

"What do you think would happen if I called her Natalia?" Steve asked, and that was enough to jerk James back to the present.

"Before or after I sock you in the jaw?" James demanded, clenching his hand on his lap.

Steve's forehead crumpled in confusion. "I'm just asking—"

James dug his fingers into his thigh, fighting against the irrational jealousy beating in his head. "You call her whatever you want," he said, the words sharp in his mouth. "She says you can call her Natalia, you go right ahead."

"Fine, I won't call her Natalia," Steve said, but James could tell that he still didn't get it.

James leaned forward, conscious that their conversation was drawing attention. "You're an idiot," he said, glaring at Steve and his stranger's face. "What they did to her when she was young, they took everything away from her, even her name. But she held on, you understand? So when she asks me to call her Natalia, I do, because that's her choice."

Steve didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, he sat back in the booth. "You really love her," he said quietly.

James bit back an exclaimation of frustration. "What does that matter?"

"I'm pretty sure that's the only thing that matters," Steve went on, his voice low. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, betraying Steve's tension, and that was the one thread of familiarity that James could follow, Steve worried about making rent, worried about the woman down the hall with her four kids, worried about James after he got the shit kicked out of him after school for daring to make time at a Protestant girl. "I just never saw you care about any one like that when we were growing up."

James rubbed his palm against the edge of the booth, the movement helping to bleed off his growing agitation. "And how the hell would I remember if I did?" he said.

The room was too hot, crowding too close around him. He needed to get out of there, out into the fresh air.

He stood up, glad that he hadn't removed his jacket on entering the diner. "I'll see you around," he said to Steve as he pulled the twenty from his pocket and tossed it on the tabletop.

"Bucky…"

But James was already walking away, shouldering his way through the people standing by the cash register, past the old men and the oblivious children. The metal of the door was cold under his hand, but then he was outside in the chill morning air and he just started walking.

What had he been thinking, trying to talk to Steve? Like that would do any good, like that would solve anything. Steve couldn't understand what James was going through; he'd come out of the ice whole and perfect. Steve hadn't spent a decade being used by the enemy to hurt, to destroy. No, Steve got a clean death and a perfect resurrection, just in time to save the world again.

Steve could never understand what James had gone through, and James would never tell Steve what horrors he had been forced to commit while under the control of the Department X butchers.

Only Natalia knew, and Natalia understood because she had been forced into the same atrocities.

No, James realized with a horrible sinking sensation in his gut. Natalia wasn't the only one who knew. Natalia's son knew as well. John Sheppard had seen the blood-drenched history handed to him by General Mikhailov, knew exactly what James had done as the Winter Soldier.

And now Colonel John Sheppard was perfectly placed to pull James' strings, and there was nothing James could do about it.

Except he could.

James was through with letting people manipulate him to their whims. James would slit his own throat before he would let himself be used again.

A particularly cold gust of air swept through the street, sending a shiver up his spine. All the warmth from the diner had leached out of his bones, leaving him freezing.

He could keep walking until he warmed up. Or he could just admit that the entire morning had been a disaster, and slink back to the apartment to work on the reports for his new puppet master.

Considering that his one attempt to put distance between himself and Steve Rogers had resulted in him eating breakfast with the man, he figured that his day couldn't get much worse.

* * *

Jarvis let him into Natalia's apartment without fuss. The room appeared still, but the lights were on and there was some faint sensation that the place was not empty.

James sank onto the couch and let out a sigh. What a morning. His head ached, his back ached, and splintered memories rubbed raw in his mind.

A door opened, and James looked around to see Natalia coming out of the document room. She pulled the door closed behind her and looked at James with a small smile on her lips. "You came back," she observed, the Russian words warm in the quiet room.

"I will always come back for you," James responded in kind.

Her smile grew. "I will remember that." She crossed the room and sat at his side, her thigh brushing his.

She had showered since her time in the gym, and her hair was up in a braid. She wore no makeup, and her clothes were non-descript, a loose black shirt and sweatpants.

And she was beautiful, the way she smiled at him, the light in her eyes when she looked at him, and James really had no idea what he'd do if he lost her.

He reached up and tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. She laughed at him. "Did the open air do you any good?" she asked, putting her arm around his shoulder and leaning against him.

"The walk helped," James admitted, kissing the top of her head. She smelled so good; he just wanted to take her to bed and undress her and lie with her in the dark until the world fixed itself without their help. "Then I went to that restaurant you told me about, and Steve comes waltzing in after me."

Natalia pulled away from James and turned to look at him. She was not smiling now. "Are you all right?"

James ran his hand through his hair. He was starting to get annoyed by his hair kept falling in his face. "I've had better meals," he said. Then he shook his head. "I don't know, Talia, it wasn't bad, it's just…" He sighed. "Even when I'm not getting him mixed up with Osinov in my head, I don't know what to say to him. That man, he's not my friend."

Natalia was quiet for a while, digesting what James had said. That was one of the things he liked about Natalia, that she would take her time with him and say only what she meant, not throwing around empty platitudes to calm him. "Do you mean he isn't the man you stood beside in the War, or the man who was your friend as a child?"

James leaned back against the couch cushions. "Steve always said the serum didn't make him think like a different man, just made him taller," he said. "But…" The words rattling around his head weren't Russian, so he gave up and switched back to English. "The guy wearing that Captain America outfit, fighting Nazis… It was like what we dreamed about as kids, me and Steve, off to save the world."

He looked up at the ceiling, blinking to push away the long-ago fantasies of two dirt-poor orphans in the Depression. At his side, Natalia took his hand in hers, her grasp warm and soft and safe.

"But he was _different_ , everyone looked up to him like he was some kind of savior and I kept thinking that not one of them understood a damn thing about Steve. They'd never known him before, and some days I'd just look at Steve and wonder why the Super Soldier project took my friend away from me."

Natalia put her free hand on James' chest. "Did you ever tell him these things?" she asked quietly.

James let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah, that'd go over swell. 'Hey Steve, don't mind me or anything, love the tights, but I'd sure like things to go back to the way they were before'."

"Before the serum? Or before the War?"

A sharp stab of grief and shame made James close his eyes and swallow hard against the lump in his throat. Natalia waited, one hand on James' chest and the other holding his.

"I just… Just, sometimes I wonder, why me? Why'd all this stuff have to happen to me?" he whispered, humiliation washing over him as his voice broke.

Natalia slid her hand across his chest and gathered him into an embrace. She held him for a long while, until his breathing evened out, until the threat of tears receded. Then she sat back and ran her hand through his hair while he pulled himself together.

"I asked myself that question a long time ago," Natalia said after a few minutes. "At the end of a very bad day. Do you know what I realized?"

"What?"

"That my life was not a punishment." She ran her hand down to his cheek. "Being brought into the program as a child, and everything that happened… it just happened. There was no intent, no design. I was in a place at a time where my path crossed that of another, and that was what led me into the Red Room, to what I became, and the choices I make now." Natalia's eyes were very green, intense as she looked at him in the intimacy of this quiet room. "It is the same with you, and with Steve. You were both in a place and a time where your paths crossed with others, and that has led you here."

"That's depressingly Russian of you," James said, leaning against her side.

"You cannot be surprised." She kissed his forehead. "Do you feel better?"

James sighed. "You know how much I hate not being in control," he grumbled, but the knot of tension in his chest had begun to loosen. "You're a really smart lady, anyone ever tell you that?"

"You only ever say things like that when you don't agree with me," Natalia pointed out.

James shrugged. "Not sure if I do or not," he said. "Maybe I need to think about stuff."

"Then go, think about stuff," she said. "I will be here."

James looked at Natalia, her gaze solemn and honest, and he was reminded with a sudden clarity how very young she must have been when she was first brought into the Red Room, the horrors she had been through, the innocence lost. "You can say what you like about fate and coincidence," he said, sitting up and stretching his back. "But if I ever get my hands on a time machine, I'm going to go back in time and find whoever brought you into the Red Room, and I'm going to stab that person in the face."

He had meant it as a joke, just some gallows humor to lighten the air in the room, but he did not understand why Natalia went completely still. For a moment, even her breathing stopped.

Then she was moving again and James didn't understand what he had seen. "If you ever want to distract Tony and Bruce for hours on end, ask them about time travel," she said as she rose smoothly to her feet. "Last time, Tony nearly set Dummy on fire by accident, they got so into it."

James had missed something, something important, but what? He got to his feet and followed Natalia into the kitchen, where she was turning on the kettle. "What dummy?" he asked.

As Natalia tried to explain Tony Stark's robot menagerie, James watched her move, listened to her words, tried to decipher what was really bothering her. Because she was very disturbed and was trying to hide it from him, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why.

What wasn't she telling him? What was he missing now?


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Days passed.

James settled into a routine, similar to what he had been doing for the previous several months. Get out of bed, partake in physical training, gather intelligence from existing sources, work on projects. The usual.

Only now there was nothing usual about it.

James only left Natalia's quarter to go down to the gymnasium, and only when Jarvis told him the room was empty. The first time James got on the treadmill, he nearly fell off three minutes later. His balance was shot, his endurance was gone, and grey pushed at the corners of his vision with every step.

James wanted to scream, to rage. Two weeks before, and he had been at the pinnacle of his physical performance, quick and agile and with stamina. Now he couldn't even jog a mile.

But he would not let his weakness control him. Taking a long drink of water, he got right back on that treadmill. He would not let his physical damage stand between him and recovery.

And if he stumbled off the treadmill fourteen minutes later to vomit from the exertion, there was no one to see but Jarvis.

But he kept at it, returning to the gym day after day. With his abused muscles protesting every step of the way, James began lifting weights and working on his core strength. It was gruelling, but he did not give up. He might be down an arm, but that was no reason to fall over and die. Even a one-armed man might find the need to run a forty-mile distance.

The most frustrating part was that he couldn't train the way he had in the past. With only one arm, push-ups became an exercise in contortion, chin-ups were nearly impossible. Most of the equipment in the room was designed for people with two functioning arms, so James had to improvise.

He would not ask for any accommodation or special help, from Natalia or Stark or anyone. He was missing an arm, not brain cells.

Steve wasn't around a lot. Jarvis said something about SHIELD work, but that didn't explain why Natalia was still there. But after the disaster with Steve and James' broken memories of Osinov, James just let it go.

Stark and Dr. Banner kept their distance, although James wasn't sure how much interaction Natalia had with the men on a normal basis. From conversation with Natalia, it sounded like she spent more time with Clint Barton and Steve Rogers in the Tower.

The other strangeness in James' life was Colonel John Sheppard.

Sheppard was in touch several times a day, following up on completed reports or with new assignments. It felt like James filled out more paperwork more reports in those three days than he had in a month with Department X. At first, he thought that Sheppard was jerking him around, but then questions from other top brass began to filter back to James for response. And Sheppard actually expected James to respond, not letting him slide.

The day James received an email directly from General Jack O'Neill was the day he realized that this whole thing might not be a joke after all. Maybe Sheppard was serious about keeping him tied to the military.

But _why_?

He posed that question to Natalia one night in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking tea while Natalia worked at the counter.

"You have an extensive background in military and intelligence tactics," Natalia pointed out as she gathered chopped nuts into a bowl. "You have decades of experience and know the context and history that exist in today's political world."

"I've been fridged since before 9/11, what the fuck do I know about anything nowadays?" he demanded, setting down his mug too hard and sloshing hot tea everywhere. "Shit."

Natalia threw a dish towel at him. "The world didn't change overnight. There is history behind everything that happens, and you lived that history."

"What, the Cold War?" James asked as he wiped up the mess he'd made. "That's bullshit. Sheppard's got dozens of old-timers hanging around from the Cold War days."

"What happened in the eighties and nineties is a world of difference from the beginning," Natalia said. "You know what happened on the ground in Afghanistan, in Iran, across all of Europe. You know how actions taken in one country can ripple underground and only be felt decades later, half a world away."

"So if Sheppard's so damned interested in old times, why doesn't he just ask you?" James exclaimed, standing to pour his tea down the sink. It had grown bitter while he ranted.

Natalia bumped her hip against his as she placed a bowl in the microwave. "Because I work for SHIELD, and you work for the U.S. Military." She pressed buttons and the microwave began to glow. "John can't tell me what to do."

"Lucky me," James said sarcastically.

Natalia went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're the one who signed those enlistment papers," she whispered, then moved back to the counter.

"I was under duress," James said. "I demand a recount."

He hoisted himself up to sit on the counter to watch Natalia work. Her hair was tied back and she'd spent the day off on some secret task; she had made herself up to look exotic, mysterious. Her lipstick was a dark red and if James had been the man he was before, he'd have swept Natalia off her feet the moment she walked in the apartment and taken her straight to bed.

Instead, he swallowed his humiliation at his body's damage, and watched Natalia.

"I didn't mean to yell at you," he said after a few minutes of silence.

"You weren't yelling at me," Natalia said serenely as she reached for the honey container. "You were yelling while I was in the room."

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have done it," James muttered.

"It doesn't bother me." Natalia walked over to the microwave, touching James' arm as she passed him. "I will let you know when you do bother me."

James rubbed absently at a spot on his back that was aching after the day's work-out. "What are you making?"

"It's a surprise. To celebrate."

"What are we celebrating?"

"That you've been here for six days." Natalia swapped out the bowl in the microwave for the opened honey jar.

"That's a weird thing to celebrate."

"Well then, at you're alive." Natalia put the bowl on the counter, then came back over to James, still sitting on the counter. She nudged her way between his knees and put her hands around his neck, moving in close. "Because I am glad that you are here."

The kiss was not unexpected, not was it unwelcome. James closed his eyes, letting Natalia's mouth move slowly over his, her tongue touching his lower lip. He tentatively put his hand on her waist as he opened his lips to her, the warm slide of her tongue over his sending shivers down his spine and curling his toes.

In fact, the only part of him that was taking no interest in the kiss was his dick, just lying there in his pants completely useless.

That was what made the nights so difficult. James expected the nightmares, of the horrible things that had happened when he was the Winter Soldier, both to him and by him. He'd been having the nightmares since he crawled out of the stasis tube the previous year. His sleeping psyche's sudden intense focus on the murdered little girl was unnerving, but it was just another nightmare.

No, what made his nights in Natalia's bed so bad was the firm knowledge that one day, Natalia would kick him out. She seemed to want him there now, but other than a kiss and cuddle on waking, she never tried to touch him under the covers. James spent hours lying awake in the dark wondering if Natalia was so repulsed by his body that she couldn't stand to touch him, then sliding to panic that she would touch him and he wouldn't be able to give her what she wanted.

On the morning of the fourth day, James woke long before Natalia and lay in the dark listening to her breathe. When she woke, it was exactly the same as the days before – she curled up along his right side and kissed his cheek, then got up to make tea while James lay in the bed wondering what the point in being alive was, if this was what he had to look forward to. A chaste kiss by the woman he loved, be ordered around by a son ten years older than he was, and a body that was fundamentally broken.

But just like all the other days, James pushed all his thoughts away into a dark corner of his mind and got out of bed and pretended everything was just fine.

Natalia had SHIELD work to do, so James headed down to the gym and spent a frustrating morning trying to skip rope one-handed. He managed to tie the rope's other handle to one of the machines and could get a good rhythm going, but his footwork was uncoordinated and clumsy. He finally threw the skipping rope at the machine, tangling the cord up around the weight plates.

He turned his back on the machines and went over to the bar to try chin-ups once again. Pulling up the weight of his body with one arm was difficult, but he was finally getting the hang of the movement, the half rotation of his body as he lifted himself up, then down. Up, and down, and while his back muscles strained at the task, it was a productive pain.

After a while, James headed back up to Natalia's apartment. She was still working, so he showered, taking longer than necessary in the bathroom's seemingly endless supply of hot water.

Just before he turned off the water, he wrapped his hand around his dick and gave a few experimental tugs. It felt good like it always did, but there was no accompanying stiffness, no anticipation of climax.

In disgust, James stepped out of the shower, dried off, and went in search of clothing that would hide the disfiguring gash where his left arm had once been.

He let his hair drip-dry over his shirt collar as he opened up Sheppard's latest assignment, an analysis of old Eastern Bloc countries' current interests in advanced robotics. James took one look at the accompanying documentation, hundreds of pages of reading, and sank back into the couch with a sigh. This was going to take forever.

He was still there an hour later when Natalia emerged from her work room. "What are you looking at?" Natalia asked, leaning over the couch in interest.

"Croatian government documentation," James said. He turned his head to look at Natalia. "You know what I learned this morning?"

"What?"

"I can read Croatian."

"You can read a lot of languages." Natalia ran her hand over James' head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

"Just 'cause I got the language shoved in my head doesn't make it feel right," James said. He reached for Natalia's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm. She smiled down at him. "What does it matter, so long as I can use it, right?"

"Were you only able to speak English before Department X?" Natalia asked. Her words were careful, delicate, as they always were when she asked him about the things he remembered. "Steve said he picked up some French and German during the War."

James made himself sit up. "I was on the front longer than Steve," he said, defensive and hating it. "I had French, but was better in German."

His Hydra jailors spoke German, and that was just one more incentive to learn as much German as he could. Not that he would ever tell that to Natalia.

"And Italian, but that was from back home," James went on. "Lots of Italians in Brooklyn, back in the day. And some Hebrew from the Jewish kids in the neighbourhood."

"You've always had an ear for languages," Natalia said. She absently ran her hand over his head, down to the back of his neck. A shiver ran though his body as she traced patterns on his skin. "I envied that, how fast you could learn."

"It's just a thing," James said, pulling away from Natalia's touch before he said something stupid. "So, are you working this afternoon?"

"I was planning on spending time in the gym." She paused, long enough to make James turn around. "Steve called to let me know he's back. We usually train together on Tuesdays."

James ground his teeth as he turned back to the monitors. Of course they did. Of course Natalia's Tuesday training partner was goddamn Steve Rogers. "Do whatever makes you happy," he muttered, flicking the document over to the next page.

There was an odd silence for a few moments. "I was not asking for your permission, James," Natalia said, voice flat. By the time James turned around, Natalia was vanishing into the bedroom.

Fuck. James got to his feet, muscles protesting after his morning's workout, and went after her.

She'd left the door open, so he figured she wasn't too angry at him. He leaned against the door frame and watched as Natalia stripped out of her clothes. She was silent, not even looking at him.

Which meant he would have to make the first move.

"I never thought you were asking for permission," he said, wincing at how stupid he sounded. "I just guess I still ain't comfortable with Steve."

Natalia pointedly said nothing.

"Which ain't— which hasn't got anything to do with you. Because you know what you're doing and I'm just going to keep out of things."

Natalia pulled a tank top over her head and straightened the fabric over her stomach. "I wasn't telling you so you could keep out of my business," she said in Russian. "I told you because the last time I trained with Steve, you came down and fought with him. I would prefer that you know what I was doing so we could avoid that happening again."

"I wouldn't bust in on you to pick a fight with Steve," James protested.

"Have you spoken with him since the diner?" Natalia asked as she stepped into her training pants.

Momentarily distracted by the sight of Natalia's behind in those tight-fitting pants, James stumbled a bit on the response. "Steve's been off saving the world, how could I talk to him?"

"He's been in the Tower every night," Natalia said.

James didn't know that. He'd thought that Steve was gone on business. Well, if Steve didn't want to talk to him, that was just fine. It wasn't like James wanted to talk to Steve.

Not even a little.

"Steve's a busy guy," James said. "I'm sure he's got lots of things to keep him going."

Natalia walked across the room and placed both hands on his chest. "James, I love you, but you're an idiot," she informed him. She reached up to gently slap his cheek. "Both of you, idiots."

"But I'm your idiot," James said, and was relieved when she smiled at that.

"Lucky me," she said dryly, then slipped around him. "I'll be back in a few hours," she called over her shoulder.

"Have fun," James said loudly. "Kick Steve's ass!"

The door closed behind Natalia. James went back over to the couch and looked at the reading he still had left to do, and let out a groan.

"Jarvis?"

There was no response for a long moment, and James was about to ask again when Jarvis said, "Yes, Sergeant?"

"You okay?" James asked. In all his interactions with the disembodied voice, Jarvis's responses had always been prompt.

"I am. Mr. Stark is running an analytics program that requires much of my attention."

Attention indeed. Jarvis's voice was sluggish, like he was slogging through quicksand. James decided he wasn't going to bother Jarvis. "Where is everyone else?"

"Captain Rogers is in the training room, while Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner are in the penthouse."

That was odd, given that Jarvis had said Stark was working. He supposed that Stark had stepped out for a few minutes.

Leaving Jarvis to his demands, James tugged his shirt straight and headed for the stairs.

It was a few flights up to the penthouse. James took it slow so he wouldn't be out of breath, but too soon he was there.

Stark and Banner were bent over a large set of blueprints, talking. James was surprised to see such an old-fashioned thing as paper blueprints in this place, but the men seemed to know what they were doing.

Banner noticed him first. "Sgt. Barnes," he said, sitting up and removing his glasses.

"Dr. Banner."

"Bruce, please." The man rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Tony."

"So the freezer pop is up and about," Tony said, never looking up. "Big deal. I'm working on balancing a very important load."

"You're welcome to join us," Bruce said.

James walked closer to the men. "What are you working on?"

"Tony's trying to figure out how small he could make a jet that would still be able to carry enough fuel to fly around the world."

"And Bruce _isn't helping_ ," Tony put in.

"There's coffee at the bar if you want some," Bruce said as he put his glasses back on.

James wandered over to the bar along the far wall. If he'd thought that Natalia's apartment was expensive, that was nothing compared with this room. Marble inlay, solid wood beams, everything swank. James swallowed down his disgust at the gross display of consumerism. He wasn't sure if that was the Winter Soldier, or his childhood in poverty that made him feel that way.

It didn't matter. This wasn't his place, it was Tony's. He would hold his tongue and follow Natalia's lead with the man.

A coffee maker sat on the bar, half-full. James located a clean mug, tucked behind a bottle of very expensive scotch, and poured himself a cup of hot coffee.

Still standing behind the bar, he looked out the windows at the city laid out before them. The familiar ache clenched in his belly, the irrational fear of being up so high. He preferred being in Natalia's rooms, where she humoured him by keeping the blinds drawn so he didn't wake up to a panic attack at the height.

She really put up with a lot from him.

James told himself firmly that he was not going to somehow fall out of the windows, and picked up his cup to carry it over to the men.

Tony was sketching something. James sat on the top step leading down the recessed sofas, and sipped his coffee. "Why are you working up here?" he asked. "I thought you had labs for this sort of stuff."

"The light's better up here," Bruce explained.

"Why on paper, though?"

Tony sat up, annoyed. "Because Jarvis is running some computational analysis for me and that combined with the crap you asked him to do—"

"He's not doing anything  for me," James interrupted. Unease spiked in his gut. Something was wrong.

"He said you asked him for help with something for Sheppard," Tony said, pushing the blueprints away.

"I got some big documents to read, sure, but Jarvis just had them open for me. Any computer could do that."

Tony's face went blank for a moment, then he was scrambling to his feet. "Jarvis?" he said sharply. There was no response for a moment. " _Jarvis_?"

"Sir," came Jarvis's voice, but the word crackled in the middle.

"Jarvis, drop everything and run a level six diagnostic," Tony ordered, making his way across the room to the wall. He pulled a painting off the wall to reveal a large computer terminal embedded there. "Tell me what's up, buddy."

"I'm afraid that—" Jarvis's words fizzled into static for a moment. "—something wrong."

"No kidding." Tony jabbed rapidly at the wall interface. "What is this? A virus? Are you being hacked?"

"It is something inside my computational nodes," Jarvis said. If he hadn't been a computer, James would have said that Jarvis sounded scared. "I think I have been stabbed, sir."

"Hang in there buddy," Tony urged, growing more frantic by the second. "I'm going to figure this out, I promise, just hang in there."

Strange beeps came from the interface, then the wail of an alarm. "Intruders," Jarvis said. "Intruders in the tower."

The wall interface popped up a cross-section of the tower. Six orange dots were scattered throughout the tower; three on the top floor, two several floors down, and one below that.

Throughout the schematic, more than a dozen blue dots streamed towards the orange dots. In particular, a cluster of dots were nearly to the top floor.

"Jarvis, I need the suit!" Tony shouted, backing away from the wall. "Buddy—"

The power died, taking the glow of the wall interface with it. An awful stillness settled over the room.

Bruce was kicking his shoes off while Tony backed towards the window, his eyes on the stairwell. That was the only way into the penthouse other than the elevator, as far as James knew.

He also knew how operations like this usually went. If you were storming a room with known fighters, you didn't just walk in and start shooting.

James was already moving when the flash grenade skittered over the stone floor. He dove behind the bar as the grenade went off, his arm over his eyes to keep from being blinded. The explosion was deafening, but he had spent years conditioning for just these circumstances. He was moving the next instant, looking out at the scene from his cover.

Masked armed men were pouring into the room. Tony was trying to shake off the effects of the stun grenade, and standing between Tony and the attackers was a very large, very angry green man.

The Hulk let out a deafening roar and picked up a couch to throw at three of the attackers. They went down like paper dolls. A few took cover in the stairwell and fired at the Hulk, but he just batted the bullets away like flies.

Two men had gotten deeper into the room, close to James. He didn't pause to think too hard about the reason for the attack; that was for afterward. He went to his knees, grabbed the coffee pot, and stood in one fluid move. One of the men turned to James, bringing his gun up. James flung the hot coffee directly into the man's face, blinding him for long enough for James to twist the man's gun out of his hand, and point it at the other attacker. He put two rounds into the man's head, then turned, raising his hand to slam the pistol hard across the first man's jaw, knocking him senseless to the ground.

James kept hold of the gun as he ducked behind the bar for cover. The Hulk had taken out another three men while James was busy, which left two men in the stairwell. Both were trying to take out Tony Stark, who was hiding behind a stone wall. The Hulk was the only thing blocking the bullets meant for Tony, and if he moved to go after either of the snipers, Tony would be unprotected.

Well, that was just rude. James raised the gun, sighted down his arm, and fired. The bullet hit the man in the neck and the man dropped.

With only one attacker left, the Hulk let out an angry cry and stomped toward the man. The man tried to drop his gun and run, but not only was the Hulk strong, he was fast. He grabbed the man by the gun arm and hurled him across the room. The man lay there, stunned.

"What the fuck?" Tony shouted, poking his head out. "Why the hell are we under attack?"

"Hulk not know," the green man said, clenching his fists and advancing on the stunned man. "Hulk find out."

James looked around. That had taken care of the group on their way to the penthouse, but what about the rest of the tower?

What about Natalia and Steve?

"I gotta go," James said, stepping over to one of the prone bodies. "You got this?"

Hulk nodded, but Tony looked at James like he was crazy. "Go where?"

"Natasha and Steve might need help!" James nearly shouted. He tightened his grip on the handgun and headed to the stairs.

He knew that Natalia and Steve could both take care of themselves in a fight, but this was an ambush on supposedly safe territory, and they would not have had any warning. James might not have been the man he was two weeks before, but he still had a gun and a hand with which to fire it. He would do anything he could to keep Natalia and Steve safe.

With the power out, the stairwell in Stark Tower was dark, lit only by faint emergency lights. James went as fast as he dared, gun up and ready to fire. Adrenaline surged through him, keeping his vision clear, his breathing deep. He was ready.

Three flights down, on the floor where Steve's apartment was, James froze at a sound. He crouched down and looked around the corner into the lobby. In the faint illumination from the emergency lights, he could see the door to Steve's apartment was open and a large man, dressed in the same black body armour as the men in the penthouse, stood in the doorway, a semi-automatic weapon in his hands.

James raised his gun, in case the man was going into the apartment, but then the man stepped back and another man in identical clothing stepped out of the apartment. The second man shook his head, and they turned to the stairs.

James moved back, letting out his breath. He didn't know how the men could have gotten into Steve's apartment; Natalia had told him that all the personal living quarters had biometric security installed for privacy reasons. The two orange dots on Jarvis's display had been on the floor where the gym was when the power went out, so it was unlikely that Steve had been the one to open the door.

Which meant something else was going on.

The first of the men stepped into the stairwell, and James attacked. Standing up from his crouch in the shadows, he pushed the man's weapon to the ceiling as he kicked the man's knee out. The man's scream couldn't drown out the crunch of breaking bone and cartilage.

James shoved the man into the wall and fired at the second man. His aim was off and he only hit the man in the shoulder, but that was enough to make the man drop his weapon. James dropped his gun and grabbed the second man by the hair, hauling him around. He knocked the man's feet out from under him and flung him onto his partner's upturned weapon. The bullets went point-blank into the man's flack jacket, and he fell heavily.

The downed man screamed in anger, trying to wrestle his weapon out from under his colleague. James didn't have time for this. He picked up his gun by the barrel and slammed the butt of the gun into the man's head once, twice.

The man stopped moving.

James staggered back. So much for the element of surprise. He looked at the gun in his hand. If the clip had been full when he grabbed it from the attacker in the penthouse, he only had four bullets left. If not…

Stepping away from the bleeding men, James went down the stairs. He had to make sure Natalia and Steve were all right.

Five more flights of stairs. James didn't meet anyone in the stairs as he made his way toward the gym. There was one prone body lying in the middle of the floor, his weapons removed. Taking that as a good sign, James inched into the room, his gun pointed at the ground.

When he poked his head around the wall, all he saw was the barrel of a gun pointed at his chest.

Natalia quickly pulled up her weapon. She was breathing hard, and in the dim lights in the corner, it looked like there was blood on her face. "Report, soldier," she demanded.

James glanced over her shoulder. Four of the attackers lay on the floor. Three of them had been tied up, while the fourth was obviously beyond the need for restraint. "Something took down Jarvis, but he managed to warn Stark before we were attacked."

"What happened?" Steve demanded. He had his shield on his arm and one of the attacker's semi-automatic weapons in his hand, and with the shadowed light, he looked dangerous.

"Dr. Banner got a little angry," James said. "Stark's fine." He looked at Natalia. "You?"

"It's a scalp wound," Natalia said. She ran her eyes down his body. "Is that blood yours?"

He looked down. His grey shirt had been splashed with gore at some point. "No."

Steve stalked across the room. "How many of them are there?"

"Hard to tell," James said. "But I found two breaking into your apartment, there may be more in the rooms."

"How did they get into Steve's place?" Natalia demanded. "The security systems operate on a separate power system from the rest of the Tower."

"I don't know. The door didn't look broken."

Steve hefted his shield. "If they're moving floor to floor, we need to find them and stop whatever they're planning. What about Tony and Bruce?"

Natalia straightened her shoulders. "If Jarvis is out, you know Tony's going to be focusing on that. Bruce can protect him."

"Right," Steve said. "Natasha, we start moving up floor by floor and see what happens."

"You're good?" James asked, touching Natalia's arm with his wrist.

"Yes." She was already moving to strip weapons off one of the downed men.

"Good." James looked at Steve. "Be careful."

"What are you going to do?" Steve demanded as James headed to the door.

"Checking on a hunch," he called over his shoulder. He held the gun at the ready as he swung around the corner and out into the hall.

The gym took up only part of the floor. James had seen the schematics of the building, knew that this floor also contained an indoor track and a shooting range. On the far side of the floor, was the back stairs down to the labs. Because there had been six orange dots on the screen, and one of those dots had been in Stark's lab. With the bad guys being blue, that meant there was someone else in the building who wasn't an attacker.

Natalia had told him, days before, that only the Avengers had access to the top floors. The cleaners came once a week, on Thursdays, to tidy the common areas, but they worked in pairs and they never went near the labs. With Clint Barton and Thor on another planet dealing with the Goa'uld Isis, there shouldn't have been anyone else in this part of the building.

James got to the stairs, only to find the metal fire door was open. Someone else had been this way.

James let out a breath and pushed his way through the door.

The emergency lights in the stairwell threw long shadows on the concrete. Stepping silently, James sensed movement below him. He carefully looked down, and through the banister he could see an armed man standing in the open fire door to the lab floor.

The man didn't look up, so James pulled back to think. If the man was standing guard, there were likely others on the lab floor, who would surely come running at the sound of gunfire. If he wanted to figure out what was happening, he'd have to disarm the man quietly.

James cursed his own stubbornness. If he had brought Natalia with him, it would have been much easier.

He quickly took stock of his situation. He had one arm, a handgun with at most four bullets, and nothing else.

Taking a slow breath, James let the cold stillness of the Winter Soldier settle over him. The Goa'uld had taken his arm, but not who he was.

James put the safety on his handgun and tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back. The fastest and most efficient way to get past this one would be to break his neck, but James didn't want to kill if he didn't have to.

The guard's semi-automatic weapon was supported by a strap across his shoulders. If James could get behind the man in the darkness, he might be able to grab the gun to twist the strap around the man's neck and strangle him unconscious.

It was a long shot, but James did not kill gratuitously.

James stepped out of his shoes and kicked off his socks. On bare feet, he quietly descended the stairs, moving only when the guard's attention was elsewhere. It took two tortuously slow minutes for James to get close.

As he tried to think of a way to get the man to walk closer so James could attack, the man turned around to look into the darkness on the other side of the door, his back to the stairs.

James wasn't about to let the opportunity pass him by. Closing the distance at a sudden sprint, he slammed his right shoulder into the small of the guard's back. When the man fell against the doorframe, he reflexively let go of his gun to steady himself. All James had to do was to grab the gun and twist it up and around, the strap going tight and cutting off the man's air. James kicked the man's feet out from under him and rode him down to the floor. The man tried to reach for James over his shoulders, but his frenzied efforts only used up more of his oxygen.

James held on until the man went limp, then a few seconds longer to make sure it wasn't a feint. When he was certain, James loosened the strap and waited. The unconscious man took in a wheezing breath, then another.

He untangled the gun strap from the man's throat and put the gun to the side while he rolled the man onto his back. This attacker wore a different type of body armour than the others; it was thicker, unlike any protection from bullets that James knew.

That was strange, and in a situation where nothing made sense, _strange_ could hold answers. James quickly located a knife on the man's hip and slashed across the man's chest. The body armour opened easily under the sharp blade, exposing fibres woven underneath an aluminium layer.

James frowned at the material. This was the stuff worn by steel makers, people working with very high temperatures. Why was this man wearing insulation over his body armour? It wouldn't protect him in an explosion, and he had no facemask to get him through a fire.

What was going on?

James patted the man down. He couldn't just leave an unconscious man lying around while he went into the labs. He was hoping for some rope or something, but when he got to the man's cargo pants, he found something that made his stomach twist in unease.

Temporary handcuffs, like zap straps, only these were also lined and padded with material similar to the jacket.

He would figure this all out soon enough. James dragged the man to the stairwell and handcuffed him to the metal railing. He moved the semi-automatic out of the man's reach, picked up the knife, and went through the doorway into darkness.

The door opened into a storage area with only sparse illumination coming through from the overhead emergency lights. James heard faint voices, but it was too far away for him to make out the words. Stepping carefully, James eased around storage containers, large metal racks, a forklift. He was closer now, but the rest of the lab was a wide open space that would offer him no cover.

Standing behind a concrete support beam, James held the knife loose in his hand as he eased out to take a look.

What he saw made his heart sink. He suddenly understood why the handcuffs, why the man in the hall wore heat-proof body armour, why the brute force attack on the others in the tower.

The rest of the attack had only been a distraction. The real target was in the labs, and it wasn't Jarvis or the Iron Man suit or any Star technology.

In the middle of the floor, on her knees with two men pointing guns at her head, was Pepper Potts.

In the darkness, her eyes glowed red with the fire of Extremis.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

One of the men, his back to James, was talking. "It's quite simple," he said, his voice thick with an Australian accent. "If you come with us, we will not shoot you, and Tony Stark gets to live."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Pepper said. She sounded scared but resolute. "If you want to take me, you're going to have to shoot me."

"What makes you think I will not?" the man asked, mocking.

"Because if you wanted me dead, we wouldn't be doing this here," Pepper ground out. She had her hands flat on the ground as she knelt on the floor, several feet from the motionless robots. "You could have killed me so much easier, anywhere else."

The man let out a snort of laughter. "That is true," he admitted. "This is just so much more sporting, don't you agree?"

"Walk away from this and no one else has to get hurt," Pepper said.

"Oh, but there is no walking away." Any humour in the man's voice vanished. "There are men out there who have paid extremely large amounts of money for you. They promised me that Tony Stark put out your fire, but it doesn't look like that's exactly true, now is it?"

He reached out one gloved hand to touch Pepper's face. She tried to pull away, but the other man jammed the gun barrel against the base of her skull to keep her still.

James quickly took stock of the situation. The fact that Tony hadn't voiced concern about Pepper during the attack meant it was unlikely that Tony even knew Pepper was in the building. Jarvis had gone black before he could say anything. So that meant there was no help coming for Pepper.

He was all she had.

 _Poor woman_ , James thought.

He stepped out from behind the pillar. "Hey buddy," James said with his most pronounced Brooklyn drawl. "You wanna quit pawing at the lady?"

The man swung around, gun aimed at James. The other gunman kept his weapon trained on Pepper. "Move and I will shoot you!"

James lifted his hand into the air, twisting the knife so the blade caught the light. "I ain't moving."

"How did you get in here?" the man demanded, stepping closer to James.

"I was in the elevator when the power went out, it took forever to pull the doors open, you know?"

"Show me your other hand!"

"I only got the one," James bit out. He held still as the man approached him. "You know what they say about not running with scissors? I'm living proof."

The man stopped too far away from James to attack. "Thrown the knife over there." James did so. "Now put your hand on your head and turn around."

It went against every instinct James had, but he turned. He felt the barrel of the gun press between his shoulder blades. It was a sloppy move, making it too easy for him to turn and knock the gun out of the man's hands. It made James wonder where this man had been trained.

The man patted James down and found the handgun at the small of his back. There was a stillness after the handgun had been pulled free, and James braced himself for the inevitable.

The slam of cold metal against his skull was not unexpected.

When the haze cleared, James found he had been dragged across the floor to Pepper's side. He tried to reach out his left arm to push himself up, but there was nothing there. It took him a minute to blink through the pain. Oh right. He didn't have a left arm anymore.

Hands touched his right arm. "Sit up," came a feminine voice. Right. Pepper Potts. They were being held at gunpoint. James remembered now.

He let Pepper help him sit. The gunmen stared down at them. Their faces were bare, which finally drove home the final piece to this disturbing puzzle.

They might need to get Pepper out of the building alive, but she wasn't going to live long enough to identify anyone to the police.

"Now you've just made my life easier," the first gunman said. "Ms. Potts, I have a new deal for you. If you don't come with us, I will shoot this man in the liver. It's a painful death, and you will have to watch."

"Shoot this man in the liver," James said in mimicry of the man's accent. "What, that's all you got? That's weak. You want to be creative, you should say you'll disembowel me or some shit."

The man aimed his gun at James. "Ms. Potts, your answer."

"I'll go with you," Pepper said, glaring at the man. "But if you turn around and shoot him, you're going to have to shoot me too."

The man grinned. It was an ugly expression. "You have yourself a deal."

Pepper stood shakily. The red glow in her eyes had faded, and when she looked at James, there was resignation on her face. "Thanks for trying," she said to him.

"Get moving!" said the armed man before James could answer.

He smiled at her instead. He was all out of options. He knew that the second man would kill him the moment Pepper was out of sight, likely with a knife to prevent sound from carrying. James would have a few moments to fight back, no more.

If he survived that fight, he would go after the gunman and Pepper. If not… well, at least he wouldn't have to explain to Tony Stark how he'd let his girl be taken.

The gunman waited until Pepper was in front of him and walking toward the back stairs. The second man had his eyes on James, unwavering.

It all happened so fast that James almost missed it. In a sudden rush of motion, Pepper grabbed a large metal wrench from a countertop and swung around, the wrench flying through the air and slamming against the gunman's head with a sickening crack.

The man beside James moved to aim his gun at Pepper, but James surged to his feet, driving his shoulder into the man's sternum. Gunfire sprayed the room as the man went down, then James knocked the gun aside and hit the man in the head as hard as he could. After a few blows, the man stopped moving.

James lifted his fist again, just in case, but the man wasn't in any condition to fight back. James shoved the man's weapon away across the floor. He'd secure the man in a moment, but for now, his head was pounding so hard he might be sick.

Moving to sit on the cold ground, James glanced around the room. Pepper was still standing over the gunman, wrench in her hand, blood spattered over her white designer dress.

And now she was staring at James.

He looked at the unconscious men, then back at her. "Hi."

Pepper backed away to lean against one of the motionless robots. "Sgt. Barnes, I presume?"

"That's me." He touched the back of his head, wincing at the pain. At least there was no blood.

"You know, I had a plan," she said.

James nodded towards the wrench. "It's a good plan," he said. "Sorry I messed it up."

Pepper shook her head. "How did you know I was down here? I was dropping something off for Tony, no one but Jarvis knew I was here."

"There was a diagram thing that Jarvis pulled up before the power died," James said. He scooted over to a concrete support beam and leaned against it. In the aftermath of the fight, every part of his body hurt. "There were dots and things. Everyone else was busy fighting bad guys, so I came down to see what was going on."

"Is Tony all right?" Pepper asked. James wondered if she knew her eyes were glowing again.

"Last time I saw, he was fine, ma'am," he said carefully. "Doc Banner was there and he was, well…"

"Responding to the situation?" Pepper finished. She put the wrench down. Even in the dim light James could see that her hands were shaking. "This wasn't supposed to happen again."

James pushed his hair back from his face. Talking was nice and all, but he didn't want either of their attackers to wake up and cause more trouble. He got to his knees, waited for the throbbing in his head to lessen, then stood. The world wobbled under his feet but he could function. "Does Stark keep any rope down here?"

"Why?"

James gestured at the unconscious men. "Tying these guys up sure would make me feel better."

Pepper pointed at a tall tool cabinet. "Third drawer from the bottom." She made no move to help him.

Well, James couldn't exactly fault her for that. She might have been told who he was, but that didn't mean she had to trust him, especially after all that had happened.

He went to the cabinet and found a bundle of zap straps tucked away in the back of the drawer. He carried them over to the men, looked at the straps, and sighed. He would never be able to do this by himself.

"What?"

He held out the bundle of straps. "I'm sure you'll pardon the expression, but I could really use a hand."

Pepper looked at him for a long moment. He could see the distrust on her face.

He lowered his hand. "I'm not working with them."

"And why would you assume that was what I was thinking?" Pepper asked.

"I know how this seems," James said. And he did see how she might interpret things. Hell, how Stark might interpret them once he realized Pepper was in the building. "Two guys with guns come in here, threatening you and you don't know what's going on, then in I come to rescue you."

"It was all a bit convenient," Pepper agreed archly.

"And I could tell you that I'm not working with them, but you got no reason to believe that, not without anyone to vouch for me."

Pepper glanced at the man she'd hit with the wrench. "I'm not going to apologize for not trusting you."

"Nothing to apologize for," James said. "Paranoia keeps you alive."

"Before I met Tony Stark, I wouldn't have agreed with you," Pepper said, but she held out her hand. "Give me the straps."

James tossed the bundle across the room, and moved back while the woman hauled the unconscious men to the metal racks, lifting their weight as easily as Natalia could have done. She strapped their hands securely to the sturdy metal support beams, keeping a close eye on James the entire time.

For his part, James leaned against the wall and tried to look unthreatening and pathetic.

Pepper made short work of securing the men. She moved back over to the robots and put her hand on the one that was frozen with a broom handle in its claw.

"Can I ask you a question?" James said after a moment.

Pepper just looked at him.

"Who knew you were up here today?"

Pepper straightened up. "Hardly anyone. I had a business meeting uptown that was supposed to go until this evening, but the man I was meeting came down with food poisoning and everything was cut short. I came up though the back entrance." She gave a shaky smile. "I bought something for Steve's birthday and I thought I'd stash it down here before I headed off to do some shopping. Steve doesn't spend any time in here."

"So the only people who knew you were going to be here…" James prompted.

"My driver, my security team, building security. Jarvis, of course, but he sounded busy when I asked him to not tell Tony I was here."

"Jarvis told Tony he was stabbed or something. Do you know what that meant?"

"No," Pepper said, astonished. "How can you stab an AI?"

"No clue." James wished that he could sit down and just rest, but if any more of the attackers came through the door, he needed to ready to defend Pepper.

Although really, from the looks of things, Pepper Potts could take care of herself.

"What I don't understand is why this happened here," Pepper said. She patted the robot at her side. "And how? This building is powered by arc reactor technology, it's not as if someone could just throw a breaker. The bots each have an independent power supply, why are they down?"

James shrugged. "What is different up here?" he asked. "When you're up in the tower, instead of out in the world?"

Pepper crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm alone," she said after a minute. "Anywhere else, I have my security team with me, especially after what happened in Los Angeles."

Of course. It was usually something like that; betrayal from the inside. "How many people?"

"Two, and my driver." Pepper levelled a look at him. "You think it was one of them."

"Ma'am, it takes a hell of a long time to put together an operation like this. Getting fifteen armed men up this tower would take time, and without Jarvis seeing them? How long would that take? Whoever did this would need to know when you were going to be here, unannounced. You said your meeting got cut short because of food poisoning?"

Pepper's eyes were glowing again, and the tips of her fingers. She took a deep breath. "We're in the middle of talks to acquire a manufacturing facility in Uruguay. The chief negotiator was taken ill after lunch, but everyone else was fine."

"Did your security team have access to the food?"

"Yes." Pepper pressed her hands together. "Someone planned this."

"You heard what Captain Kangaroo said," James said, pointing across the room to the still-unconscious man. "Whoever started this has the money to buy all these people, and has no regard for human life. They had to have known that sending people up against the Avengers on their home turf was going to end in a lot of dead mercenaries."

"But what for?" Pepper demanded. "This can't just be about Extremis."

"It's not 'just' Extremis," James said. "The jerk over there, he said his bosses said you weren't a danger with Extremis any more."

"That isn't what happened," Pepper said. "Tony managed to tinker with the biochemistry so I won't spontaneously combust, but…" Her voice trailed off in horrified realization.

"You're still strong, and Stark said you can still set people on fire when you want to," James said. "Stark managed to perfect Extremis, and you're the living example."

Pepper pushed her hair back from her face. She turned away from James to pace across the room, the sharp tic-tic of her high heels loud in the huge room. She navigated the clutter on the floor better than James would have been able to in the dark. He wondered what other enhancements she had received from Extremis.

"Let's wrap back around to how you know so much about Extremis," Pepper said after a few minutes. She was in the shadows of the server racks, hidden from the light.

James let his head fall back against the wall, then winced as the pain sliced through his skull. He was in a dangerous spot. If Pepper thought he had something to do with the attack on the Tower, that was one thing – she seemed like a rational lady, she wouldn't just randomly set him on fire or anything. But Stark was another matter. If he thought James had any thing to do with the attack on Jarvis, or on Pepper, he might just let Iron Man shoot first and ask questions later.

There was nothing else James could do. He would have to tell the truth. At least part of it.

"Back when I was coming to New York to find Natasha, I did a bit of recon on the people who were living with her," James said slowly. "Banner and Stark, mostly. Barton is SHIELD and easier to figure out."

"That leaves Steve Rogers and myself," Pepper said.

"And Thor," James agreed. "But he'd only been on Earth a little while. Not that much to find out about him."

Other than Jane Foster, who Thor had met in New Mexico, but James doubted that Pepper would be pleased to hear about James' gathering intel on the Avengers' sweethearts.

"And since you knew about Steve already?"

"I did some checking into your… situation."

"Tony said you hacked into the Pentagon files about the Mandarin attacks."

James raised his eyebrows. He made a mental note to figure out how much Tony Stark told this woman. "That is what I told him."

"And that's where you learned about Extremis?"

James saw the trap a mile out, and quickly sidestepped. "AIM was a player in some other areas I was looking into before the Mandarin attacks at Christmas," he told Pepper. "An individual who I knew, expressed some interest in Dr. Maya Hansen's work."

Pepper strode out of the shadows. "This will all go a lot faster if you stop dancing around my question, Sergeant." Her voice was steady and clear and there was the iron of the battlefield in her words.

James liked this woman. "What do you know about Isis?" he asked.

Pepper's eyes narrowed. "Is this the alien that brought back Phil Coulson from the dead?" she demanded.

"Do you have security clearance to know that?" James asked.

"I have Tony, which amounts to the same thing," she said. "Why would an alien be interested in Extremis?"

One of the men on the floor stirred. James shuffled over to him to make sure he wasn't about to vomit and choke, but the man just twitched a few times and was still.

Now that James knew that Isis had been his contact these last months, the man's off-handed comments about AIM and about Hansen in one of their in-person meetings made sense. James could see why Isis would have been interested in Extremis.

"Isis called himself a scientist. You know, like Doctor Frankenstein." James gave the man on the floor a gentle kick, to make sure he was still alive. "Maybe he wanted to know what Extremis did, who knows?"

James was not about to tell Pepper, or anyone, about what Isis and the Department X scientists had done to Natalia as a child. That sort of experimentation was fit for no living creature; James still had no idea how Natalia had survived the process.

"Do you know how much of Phil is left?" Pepper asked quietly. "Will he recover?"

"No idea, ma'am." James moved over to a nearby crate and slumped down onto its surface. "I know they were going to try to take the alien out and get your man back, but I was down for the count when that was going on. Natasha might know."

Pepper sighed. "What do we do now?"

"Wait."

"For what? Someone else to come rescue me?"

James shrugged, wincing at the renewed throbbing in his head. "Hey, I said I was sorry about that."

Pepper waved it off. "I don't like just sitting around."

"We don't know how many more attackers are out there," James pointed out. "We don't know what else they're up to, or what they might do if they see you. Just let Steve and Natalia do a sweep of the building."

"And Tony?" Pepper asked. "He doesn't have the suit."

"But he's got Banner, that's something, right?"

"Right." Pepper walked over to the bound man, the one she'd stuck in the face with the wrench. She knelt at his side, all elegance in her designer dress, and gingerly started rummaging through his pockets.

James watched her idly for a few minutes. What he wouldn't give for an icepack and a bottle of aspirin. "Whatcha doing?" he asked.

"Looking for a communication device," Pepper said. "They had to have some way of communicating, right?"

"I suppose."

Pepper levelled a glare in his direction. "Don't you want to know what they're saying?"

"Yeah, but I don't think it's going to work." At her continued glare, James went on, "In situations like this, if the operation goes this badly, it's everyone for himself to try to get back to the central meeting point. Once the extraction goes belly-up, it's assumed that comms are compromised."

Pepper and stood. "You seem to know a lot about these types of operations."

"I'm a soldier, ma'am." He tried to smile winningly at her, but from the expression on her face, he missed by a mile. "U.S. Military."

"The soldiers I know don't exactly specialize in…" She gestured at the mess of the room. "Whatever is happening here."

"This, ma'am, would be a clusterfuck." James stood. His back twinged on him; he might have pulled something in the fight. "Don't mean to be a bother, but does that fridge over there have any ice in it?"

Pepper shook her head. "Try the one by the blender." She laid her hand on the robot arm. "That's Dummy's smoothie fridge."

James limped his way over to the fridge. It took him a few minutes to put together a serviceable ice pack with just one hand, but the lady seemed disinclined to approach him. Not that he blamed her, after the day she'd had.

He had just seated himself on the crate, icepack pressed against his skull, when the Iron Man suit suddenly came to life. The suit moved like a man, glowing eyes searching the room. It looked at the men on the floor, at Pepper, then swung around to James, its arm going up and its hand glowing ominously.

James dropped the icepack and tried to scramble back over the crate. Pepper shouted and rushed forward, throwing herself between James and the suit. "Stop!" she shouted again, her hands up. She was beginning to glow, lit from the inside with Extremis' fire. "Tony, are you there?"

The suit hesitated, then lowered its hand. James didn't breathe any easier. "Ms. Potts," Jarvis said out of the suit's mouth. "You are unharmed."

Pepper's shoulders slumped in relief. "Jarvis, what happened? How are you accessing the suit?"

The suit straightened up. "This interface was powered down when I was attacked," Jarvis said. "Mr. Stark has managed to boot the suit without needing to go through the building's infected servers."

"Do you know what happened?" Pepper asked.

The suit shook its head. "At this time, with the servers off-line, it is impossible to ascertain the extent of the damage. Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner are working on the problem."

Pepper let out a sigh of relief. "Good." She pressed her hands over her face, her glow diminishing. "Good. Jarvis, are you in contact with Tony right now?"

"I am."

"Okay, I need you to tell him that someone on my security team might be involved in this whole thing and that he needs to get the main security desk to lock-down the building until we deal with this."

The suit lowered its head, somehow looking abashed. "When I informed Mr. Stark that you were in the building, and that Sgt. Barnes was here as well, I believe he jumped to a conclusion about the responsibility of… certain parties. He is on his way down now."

"Why did you tell him I was here?" Pepper asked, throwing out her hands.

James sighed. Of course Tony jumped to the conclusion that this was all James' fault. Although to be fair, James had expected this.

"Security Protocol Fifty-Four states that in the event of an emergency in the Tower, your location and well-being are to be reported to Mr. Stark immediately."

"You do know he's going to rip my other arm off," James called from the crate.

"No, he's not," Pepper retorted. "Jarvis, can you communicate with the security detail?"

The suit tilted its head. "I have done so," Jarvis said after a moment. "In Mr. Hogan's absence, Mr. Miles is in charge. He informs me that he will secure your team."

"Good," Pepper said. "Then get him to send up medical teams along with security. I'd like to keep the body count as low as possible today." She put her hand to her cheek. "Did I just have to say that?"

"Bet they never covered this in MBA school," James said.

"Do you think there's any preparation out there for running Stark Industries?" Pepper shook her head. "Jarvis, status update."

"Mr. Miles has been communicated with. He tells me that it may take some time to climb the stairs to the top floor. I will suggest to Mr. Stark that he focus on resuming power to the elevators."

"Aren't the elevators supposed to run on an independent power source in case of a power outage?"

"They are, yet they are inoperative." Jarvis turned Iron Man's head to look at the robots. "It is possible that the bots were turned off by whatever inactivated the elevators."

"How would someone know to do that?"

"I do not know," Jarvis said. "As this interface was powered down and not in communication with the main servers, I am missing the information that would enable to me to respond."

"We'll get this solved," Pepper promised.

"I know," and there was warmth in Jarvis's voice. "However, in the meantime, my sensors are picking up movement in the stairwell."

"Friendlies?" James asked, staggering to his feet. He wasn't sure what good he would be in case of a fight. But he couldn't just sit there and let Pepper do all the work.

"It would appear so," Jarvis said dryly, as Tony Stark and Steve Rogers burst out from behind the storage crates into the room.

Tony advanced on them. He gave James a hard glare, then turned to Pepper. "When I suggested you find an excuse to get out of that meeting today, this wasn't what I had in mind."

"Oh, shut up." Pepper held out her arms and Tony walked into the embrace. The tension bled out of Pepper's body as she sagged against Tony, his arms around her back, one hand cradling her head as she let out a shuddering breath.

Steve, who had been taking in the state of the room and the unconscious men on the floor, finally came over. "What the hell happened?"

He was looking at James, but James' head was aching too much to be able to deal with Captain America. He waved his hand at Pepper. "I came across two assholes trying to abduct Ms. Potts here. She dealt with it."

"What?" Tony exclaimed. He pulled back to look at Pepper. "Why?"

Pepper pushed her hair back from her face. "Why do you think?" she asked, sounding exhausted.

"Yeah, and I didn't mess up her escape plan too much." James gave Pepper a crooked smile.

Tony narrowed his eyes at James. "How did you know Pepper was in the building?" he demanded, stepping toward James. "She wasn't supposed to be here until tonight."

"Is that your real question, Stark?" James squared his feet, shifted the balance of his weight to deflect a physical attack. "Why don't you just skip to the part where you ask if I was in on this?"

"Were you?" Stark stopped in James' personal space. He was pissed, hands flat at his sides. "You bolted out of the penthouse pretty damned fast for someone who wasn't expecting anything!"

"There were six orange dots on the display," James said, not backing down. He might only have one arm, but he had a decade of the Winter Soldier under his belt – he could deflect the attack of one angry civilian. "I knew Steve and Natalia were in the gym, but that left someone on the lab that Jarvis considered a friendly. Thought I'd check it out."

Tony's angry expression slipped a bit. He'd missed that one, James thought smugly. The satisfaction slipped away when he remembered that Tony had been trying to save Jarvis at the time. "It could have been cleaning staff, or security," Tony said, trying to hold on to his anger.

James let his lip curl. "You know what guys like these do to folks who get in their way?" he asked. "They're going in to kill Tony Stark and just let the janitor walk away?"

"Tony," Pepper said. "You should be helping Jarvis."

Tony kept staring at James for a moment longer. "Yeah," he said eventually. "Although I don't know _how_ , I still have no idea what they did to him."

Movement at the back of the room, and Natalia was slipping out of the shadows. She moved slowly, and it took James a heartbeat to realize she was limping. When she stepped into a spot of light, James saw the fresh bruising on her cheek.

James' stomach lurched. Natalia had been hurt. Then his mind filled in the rest of the details, and he stepped out from behind Tony to face Steve. "Is this how you operate?" he asked angrily. "You hide behind that shield while Natasha handles the attack?"

"That's not what happened!" Steve exclaimed.

"Sure looks a lot like it!"

Natalia limped past them, not paying the slightest bit of attention as she went straight to Pepper. "Are you okay?" she asked gently, touching Pepper's shoulder.

Pepper nodded shakily. "Just a bad day."

"Do you need a doctor?" Natalia asked, feeling along Pepper's arms, her hands.

Pepper shook her head. "But Sgt. Barnes does. He was—he got hit in the head pretty hard."

Natalia turned around. "James?" she said sharply.

"I'm fine," he said, moving away from Steve. If he got into an altercation in his state, he was sure things would just end messy. For him. "Ain't nothing wrong."

"You were senseless for nearly a minute," Pepper said.

That pulled him up short. He hadn't realised it had been that long. "Huh."

"Sir," Jarvis asked, turning the Iron Man suit towards Tony. "We should continue to work on restoring power to the Tower, if we are to get security up here to secure everyone."

"Roger that," Tony said. "Is Bruce up at the penthouse interface?"

"Affirmative."

"Let me see if I can get us up and running down here."

As Tony walked to the wall, Natalia caught James' arm. "Sit," she murmured, drawing him towards the rolling chair.

"I'm all right," he protested. "Maybe you should sit."

"I wasn't hit in the head." She pushed him down. "Are you seeing double?"

"No." He met her gaze as her gentle fingers ran over his scalp. Her eyes were dark, the green of her irises thin in the darkness of the room. He put his hand on her hip as she touched the sore spot on his head, and he winced.

"The skin isn't broken and I don't feel any bones shards," she said. "That's a good sign."

"You know how thick-headed I can be," he said, and she smiled at that.

"We found the men on the stairs," she said softly, her hands sliding down to his shoulders. "You?"

"Yes."

Her thumb stroked along the side of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. "That was very impressive work."

He shrugged. "Just like old times," he said, because there was so much he wanted to tell her, but _couldn't_ , not with Steve standing right there. He wanted to tell Natalia how he'd nearly lost his balance a number of times, how he'd had to be careful to not lead with his left, how the adrenaline from the attack was still vibrating in his remaining limbs.

He wanted to tell her how good it felt to fall back into old patterns, letting muscle memory and instinct take over as he defended himself.

Maybe later.

At the wall, light started to show. Tony let out a triumphant yelp. "Power levels are starting to cycle," he said. "Looks like the power wasn't cut, just throttled. Independent systems are starting to come back online."

"What systems?" Pepper asked.

"The elevators, and basic lights." Sure enough, the emergency lights faded as the overhead lights blazed. James had to blink a few times to let his eyes adjust.

Across the room, there was a whirring, and the frozen robots started to move again. The one with the broom turned around and made a quizzical beep.

"Trust me, it's a long story," Tony said to the robot.

Steve stirred. "You said that elevators and lights came up first?" He turned to Natalia. "That's awful similar to what happened at Area 51."

She gave James' shoulder a squeeze as she moved over to the interface. "Tony, have you found the code that infected Jarvis?"

"Bruce is working on that," Tony said. "And by the way, didn't Area 51 happen because this jackass," and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in James' direction, "Deliberately infect the computer system?"

"Yes," Natalia said bluntly as she tapped on the interface. "But he would not have colluded on this."

"And you know this how?"

Natalia turned to face Tony. "This situation is a theatrical mess," she said. "Bringing this much damage and destruction to abduct one person, when it could be done elsewhere with far less noise?"

"That's what Sgt. Barnes said," Pepper said quietly.

Tony looked at James. "So if you were going to kidnap my CEO, where would you do it?"

"Ladies bathroom at an evening event," James said promptly. "Not many security teams are all-female, so all you'd need to do is to take out anyone in the room. No one ever thinks to look in the ceiling vents in the bathroom."

"You're a disturbing person," Tony informed him.

"Here we go," Natalia said, pointing at the interface. "Steve was right."

"What the…" Tony squinted at the display. "What the fuck kind of programming language is that?"

"It's Goa'uld," Natalia said. "I need to call John in on this."

"Absolutely not!" Tony exclaimed. "The Air Force isn't getting anywhere near my stuff!"

Natalia put her hands on her hips and stared up at Tony. "Tony, if this was a computer virus written by Isis, do you understand how vulnerable your systems are?"

"Why?"

"Because Phil Coulson knew a lot about this building," Pepper said from her corner. She had wrapped her arms around herself. "He knew about the bots, and the arc reactor power supply. Would Isis have known what Phil knew?"

"Yes," Natalia said. "The Goa'uld can access their host's memory. That is why you need to let me contact John!"

"Fine," Tony said, his voice laced with anger. "You get him here and then maybe he can explain to me how this is just some big coincidence and that Sgt. Slushie isn't responsible."

"Slushie?" James repeated, looking at Steve in confusion.

"It's an ice drink, with syrup, the consistency of slush," Steve said quietly. "So, slushie."

"Sir," Jarvis was saying, "Building communications are still down."

"Of course they are. Can you call Sheppard through the suit?"

"Affirmative." The Iron Man suit's head tilted, his eyes glowing. "Stand by."

A ring tone came out of the suit's mouth, then John Sheppard's voice came out of the suit's mouth. "Colonel Sheppard."

"John, it's your mother," Natalia said before Tony could speak. "We have a situation."

"What is it?" John asked sharply.

"Stark Tower was attacked by about twenty mercenaries, aided by a computer virus that looks similar to the one used at Area 51. The Goa'uld one."

"Any casualties?" John demanded.

"None on our side," Natalia said. "Several from the attackers."

"And the power may be back up," Tony added. "But communications are spotty, the buildings scanners are down, and Jarvis is a hot mess."

"I object to that phrasing, sir," Jarvis said.

"I can be there in twenty minutes," John said. "I'll bring someone to help with the Goa'uld program. You guys need a doctor?"

"That would be wise," Jarvis said before Natalia could speak. "The security staff in the building are only suited for first aid."

"See you in twenty," John said, and the call ended.

Tony stared at the suit. "What gives?"

The suit moved its head to return the look. "Now that the attack is over, those individuals who are still alive could use medical attention," Jarvis said. "They may be able to explain how the virus was introduced to my systems."

Tony crossed his arms over his chest. "You're running the show now, buddy?"

"With respect, sir, you were not the only one they attempted to kill today."

Pepper pushed off the wall. "Tony, let them help," she said wearily. "I'm going to check on Bruce."

James stirred. "Did you clear the floors?" he asked Steve. "There may be more assailants you didn't find."

"We did as much as we could," Steve said. "But without the building's sensors working we can't be sure there aren't a few stragglers."

"I'll go with Pepper," Natalia said. "You all behave."

"We're all grown-ass adults," Tony grumbled.

Pepper rolled her eyes. "Jarvis, you're in charge."

"As always, Ms. Potts," Jarvis demurred.

Once Pepper and Natalia were in the elevator, James finally relaxed, slumping down on the chair. "Fuck," he muttered.

"You okay?" Steve asked.

"Hell no." He made himself stand up. His right shoulder hurt all through the joint, and his back felt strained. "Stark, you got any aspirin?"

"Dummy!" Tony shouted. One of the robots turned its claw in their direction. "First aid kit, pronto!"

The robot rolled off toward one wire rack. Steve set his shield on some spare counter space. "Anything else you need, Bucky?"

The surge of anger that clenched in his gut was becoming familiar. James raised his hand and tried to suppress his desire to lash out. "For the last fucking time, can you stop calling me that?"

"What am I supposed to call you?"

"I don't know, how about James?"

"You hated that name as a kid."

James shook his head as the robot rolled towards him, holding the red first aid kit aloft. "Not a kid anymore," James said, taking the kit from the robot's claw with only a small amount of tugging. He managed to unzip the kit and find painkillers in a blister pack. "Why don't you make yourself useful and see if those guys need a medic or a priest."

"If you thought they were going to die, why didn't you say so before?" Jarvis asked from the suit.

"Wouldn't have done them any good, with the elevators out," James said as Steve hurried over to the men. "My guy might be okay, but Pepper hit that one with the wrench pretty hard. I don't know if he's going to wake up."

"She's not going to like that," Steve said, kneeling beside one of the still-unconscious men.

"She's alive, she'll figure it out." James popped three of the pills out of their plastic, then cracked them between his teeth. He made a face at the bitterness. "You get used to it."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Jarvis informed them Sheppard was asking for permission to land on the building's helipad. Tony told him to do it, pulling Steve, James and the Iron Man suit into the elevator up to the penthouse's kitchen floor. The painkillers still hadn't kicked in and James was feeling the injuries when they came out to the elevator.

Pepper, Bruce and Natalia were all waiting by the glass doors. Bruce was in a pair of nearly too-short pants and a faded t-shirt, probably whatever he could find after the Hulk shredded his other clothes.

"Where are they?" James asked, shuffling over to Natalia.

"John said he was going to extend the Puddlejumper's invisibility cloak to the door so no one watching would see people walking out of thin air," Natalia said.

"Smart boy," James said quietly. Natalia looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. Already, the bruises on her cheek were beginning to yellow around the edges, healing.

The Iron Man suit turned its head. "Colonel Sheppard requests that you open the doors."

Steve moved forward and pulled open the glass doors. A blast of icy air washed over them, then the air rippled and what looked like a tunnel appeared, showing the back of the open Puddlejumper. Several people stood on the open ramp, and one of them was waving.

James edged to the side. Looking at the helipad from the side, the tunnel wasn't there, nor was there anything on the helipad itself. In spite of himself, James was impressed.

"Permission to come aboard?" came a familiar voice, as John Shepard appeared through the doors.

Tony rolled his eyes, as Pepper nudged his arm with her elbow. "Thank you for coming," she said, reaching out her hand to John. He took it and shook, not seeming to notice the blood spattered on her dress.

"I brought a medic," John said, turning to gesture as the rest of the people came through the doors. One man with his sergeant's stripes on his uniform, James faintly recognized from the Stargate Command medical bay, but it was the rest of them that surprised James. It was SG-19.

"Word on the street is that you've been recuperating in style," Lt. Cheeks said to James.

James shrugged. "Hanging around Colorado wasn't doing me any good."

"What the hell is this?" Tony asked. "Is this a coup? Are we being invaded?"

"I don't send my medics in after the wounded enemy without backup," John told him. "SG-19 was just lying around anyway."

Specialist Ryder's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline, while Captains Brown and Williams exchanged a tired look.

"If this is related to the Isis thing, we can take all these guys off your hands," John went on. "I've got ground transport en route from Fort Hamilton."

"What exactly are you going to do with them?" Bruce asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

John turned to Bruce. "Fix up the survivors, and try to figure out how they relate to the Goa'uld," he said evenly. "We've been doing this for a very long time, Dr. Banner."

There was a movement in the tunnel, and the military men respectfully parted to let a tall blonde woman pass them. She was dressed in the same Air Force blues as Sheppard, a silver eagle on her epaulets indicating her rank.

"Colonel Carter," Natalia said, straightening her spine. James knew Natalia well enough to know that she was on edge, but not threatened. "Are you here to help with the Goa'uld computer code?"

"I am," said the woman. She was older than John, maybe late-forties, and she carried her rank with ease. "You said that you thought the virus was written in Goa'uld?"

Tony held up his hands before Natalia could respond. "Everyone, stop it," he demanded. "No one goes anywhere or touches anything. Sheppard, I didn't say you could just waltz in here and—"

"I'm offering to help," John said. "We dealt with this in Area 51 and we can deal with it here." He never broke eye contact with Tony. "Unless you want us to leave and let SHIELD try to handle this?"

James moved back to Natalia's side. "Did anyone call SHIELD?" he asked in Russian. Natalia shook her head. That, James decided, was interesting all on its own.

"Tony," Pepper said.

"Pepper," Tony shot back, turning. They looked at each other for a heartbeat, then Tony shook his head and Pepper smiled.

"Colonel Sheppard, Captain Rogers would love to show you to the wounded," she said.

John jerked his head, and the medic and most of SG-19 followed Steve to the stairs. Ryder stayed behind, standing a half-step behind Colonel Carter. The Colonel looked at James, and gave him a brief nod. "Sergeant, I've heard a lot about you," she said.

A ranking Air Force officer in the Stargate program who knew about the Goa'uld and computers and everything? He just bet she did. "Colonel," James said stiffly.

"So," John said, stepping forward so he was closer to Tony. "Can we get this show on the road or are we waiting for anything else?"

Tony lifted his chin. "Maybe I'm waiting for an independent observer to arrive."

That made no sense to James, but John grinned, fast and sharp. "Colonel Rhodes?"

"Got a problem with that?" Tony retorted.

"You do realize that he's not cleared to know about the Stargate program?"

"Do I look like that bothers me?" Tony turned on his heel and walked into the large communal kitchen. "Read him in."

"This may be a shock to you, Stark, but you don't get to tell the Air Force what to do."

Tony pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. "It's my house, my AI, my rules."

"An AI that currently isn't working because of an alien virus," John said, sticking his hands in his pockets. Colonel Carter was watching this exchange with a bemused expression on her face. Ryder just looked bored. "Seems like you've got a bit of a conundrum on your hands here."

Natalia sighed. "The games of children," she muttered in Russian as she walked across the floor. "I've got a great idea," she went on, switching back to English. "Tony, is Rhodey on his way?"

"He is," Jarvis said from the Iron Man suit. "As per Security Protocol Fifty-Four, Colonel Rhodes was contacted when this suit powered up."

"John, can you read Rhodey into the Stargate program?" Natalia asked, putting her hand on her son's arm. "You know if you don't," she continued in Russian, "Tony will just tell him anyway."

John clenched his jaw and was silent.

"All right, fine," Tony said, pulling another bottle of water out of the fridge and handing it to Pepper. " _Please._ "

John's mouth twisted up in a smile. "Well, if you ask so nicely," he said.

From outside, a blur of red and blue flew past the window, up to the penthouse landing pad. Pepper sat down at the table and tried to open the water bottle. It took her a few tries, her hands were shaking so badly.

Natalia went to sit by Pepper, taking her hand and holding it while Pepper stared at the bottle. Tony bit his lip and watched them.

A few moments later came a clatter on the stairs. A tall black man in civilian clothes hurried around the corner, his hands already up. "You threw a party and didn't invite me?" he said, walking right up to Tony.

"Last time you crashed one of my parties, you trashed my house," Tony retorted. "You're a Colonel, you talk to these other Colonels here, I'm busy."

Rhodey looked around. "Colonel Sheppard, good to see you again," he said, holding out his hand to John. They shook, then the man turned to Colonel Carter. "Colonel Carter."

"Colonel Rhodes," Carter said, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Tony, you still need help?" Rhodey asked.

"What makes you ask that?"

"Maybe it was the dire warning calls," Rhodey said, "Or the dead guys up in your penthouse. Or the Army captains I passed on the stairs. Anyway, call it a hunch."

John reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers. "Colonel Rhodes, I need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement," he said.

Tony glared at John. "Wait, you had that with you the whole time?"

"Of course I did," John said. "I've have to be brain-dead not to think you'd bring in Colonel Rhodes in this kind of an emergency."

Tony glowered at John, as Rhodey signed the paper and handed it to John. He put it back in his pocket.

"All right, who wants to tell me what's going on?" Rhodey asked.

"There are aliens," Tony said without preamble.

"Yes, Tony, I remember," Rhodey said.

"Not just the Chitauri," John said. He smiled, making him look about twenty-five years old. "There are other alien races."

"I guess that makes sense," Rhodey said slowly. Realization slowly spread over his face. "Wait, are you saying that the Air Force knows about aliens?"

Carter cleared her throat. "The Air Force has been in control of alien technology that allows us to travel to other worlds and to meet alien races," she explained. "We suspect one of those aliens had a role in the attack on Stark Tower today."

Rhodey blinked. "For how long?" he asked.

"Since 1994."

Rhodey's eyes grew wide, and he looked at Tony. "They've got spaceships," Tony said wearily. "Actual goddamn spaceships."

Rhodey blinked again. "Why would an alien want to attack Tony?"

"They didn't attack me," Tony said. "Not really. They were after Pepper."

The bafflement on Rhodey's face was wiped away in an instant, replaced with resolve. "How can I help?" he asked.

"I need help with Jarvis and Carter is the expert," Tony said. "And you speak Air Force."

Tony and Bruce headed up the stairs to the penthouse, Rhodey and Carter in tow. Ryder paused by James and raised an eyebrow. "Most people lose an arm, they don't head straight into danger," he said.

James shrugged. "Next time I'll do my recuperating in Tahiti," he suggested.

Ryder grinned at that, then ran after Carter. The Iron Man suit walked after him, moving mechanically up the stairs.

James turned to the table. Pepper and Natalia were still sitting there, Natalia speaking quietly and Pepper nodding. Not really wanting to interrupt the women, James walked to the refrigerator, passing Sheppard as he did so.

"Drink?" James suggested.

"Sure," John said. He waited until James pulled two cans of soda out of the fridge, and took the one James offered. "What really happened?"

James popped the soda top and took a long drink. "Same as in Area 51," he said when he came up for air. "Jarvis was acting sluggish and he didn't really know why. Tony thought I was using him for something and I thought Tony was working him too hard, you know? So it took us a while to figure out something was wrong."

"They were after Pepper?"

James pressed his lips together. This was potentially an awkward situation; if John didn't know about Pepper's condition, was it James' place to tell him?

He would have to find out, then make his choice. "How much do you know about what happened with Aldrich Killian and the Mandarin?" James asked.

Some of the confusion on John's face cleared. "They were after Extremis, then."

James gave a tight nod. "One of the mercenaries in the laboratory indicated as much."

"Damn."

"You know about it?" James asked.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "A terrorist attacks U.S. soil and attempts to kill the president? Yeah, Homeworld Command was informed." He let his hand drop. "There was some question if Extremis might be alien in origin, so they wanted to check."

"Is it?"

"No, this shit's home-grown."

Over at the table, Pepper had straightened up and pulled her hand away from Natalia. "Colonel Sheppard," she called. "Please, join us."

John smiled at the woman as he carried his soda to the table, sitting down next to Natalia. "You doing okay?"

"No," Pepper said. "It's been a bad day."

"It's likely that there was an inside man on this job," Natalia told John. "We were betrayed."

"By someone who knew Pepper's schedule," James added, lowering himself into an empty chair. "This operation had to be planned well in advance."

"In advance enough for it to have been Isis?" John said doubtfully. "You know, I'll be honest. What I know about the Goa'uld makes me wonder why Isis would be in on something like this."

"You don't think the Goa'uld would want Extremis?" Natalia asked.

John shifted in his seat. "Not exactly," he said slowly. "But Isis was a careful sonofabitch. Why would he plan for something to grab Ms. Potts here so close to that whole thing in Texas?"

"You cannot be sure that he planned on the timing of his attack," Natalia objected. "James was not acting under orders to come to New York the first time."

John turned to James. "What did make you come to New York?"

James shrugged. "I'd just grabbed the, uh… that hand thing." The name was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't find it. He hoped it wasn't because of the head injury. "And I was close to New York and I knew Natasha was here and I just thought, you know, I'd come see her."

"That's your story?"

Something in John's words set James' teeth on edge. "Ain't no story, kid. It's what happened."

"So it's possible that Isis had two operations going at once and they just overlapped?"

"I don't think so," Natalia said. "Isis was pretty clear that I was his endgame. He spoke as if taking my body as a host was the only thing that mattered for him. If that was the case, why not simply delay any operation to abduct Pepper?"

"Go on," James said, leaning back in his chair.

Natalia put her hands on the table. "Once you had managed to infiltrate Pepper's security team, there would be many opportunities to initiate the abduction operation," she said. "Isis liked control. If this really was his operation, why would he not wait until he was secure in my body to retrieve Extremis?"

John made a face. "It's creepy, you talking like that."

The comment dispelled some of the tension in the room. Pepper even smiled a little in relief, but Natalia was not smiling. "I am being serious. When he had me, he made it seem like what he had done to me as a child was all that he planned. Why would he want Extremis?"

"Sgt. Barnes said that Isis had mentioned Extremis to him," Pepper put in.

Natalia looked at James. "Yes?"

He nodded. "Just in passing," he said. "He mentioned AIM and Maya Hansen, once. After what happened at Christmas, I put the pieces together."

Natalia shook her head. "There is another option that no one has mentioned," she said. "How much do you think it would cost for Isis to do everything he did? The thefts of Goa'uld technology, the transport rings in Nevada, the entire complex in Texas. That sort of thing requires much ready money."

"You think that Isis wrote a virus to attack Stark Tower for _money_?" John demanded.

Pepper let out a pained noise. "Phil knew so much about this place," she said softly. "Jarvis, the bots, the power supply. He'd know exactly what to do to take it apart, piece by piece."

Natalia put her hand on Pepper's back. "It wasn't Coulson," she said. "The Goa'uld strip-mined his memories. Phil didn't do this, the Goa'uld did."

Pepper put her head in her hands for a moment. "All of this for money," she said when she lifted her head. "So much money, and all because someone wants to take me apart."

Natalia made a comforting noise in her throat. "No one is going to take you apart," she said. "And if anyone tries, do what you'd do to anyone who thought he owned you." She waited until Pepper looked at her, and then Natalia smiled the Black Widow's smile. "Burn him to the ground."

James nodded approvingly, while John looked downright disturbed.

* * *

After a few more minutes of small talk, Pepper excused herself to change. Natalia discretely went with her. That left John and James sitting alone in the kitchen, while distant sounds of discussion fluttered down the stairs from the penthouse.

John stretched out in his chair. "Is there anything you couldn't tell me in front of the others?"

"Not really," James muttered. He rested his elbow on the table, trying to give his back a bit of relief. "I don't know who did this, but…"

John waited while James gathered his thoughts.

"This was stupid," James finally said. "A crew as experienced as this one, and you just send them in to die? Word is going to get out, and that will make it that much difficult for them to hire again."

"Maybe they blew their wad on trying to grab Pepper now," John said. "Maybe they were out of options."

"But that's just it, they weren't." James shook his head. "Why were they so confident that they could pull this off?"

"Maybe something Isis told them?"

"Fuck that," James said. "Um, sir."

"I told you to stop calling me that," John said.

James let it drop. "Would you ever risk the lives of your squad on an untested source?"

"Not a goddamn chance." John let his head fall back, closing his eyes. "Something's going on here."

"More than just wanting Extremis? What else could there be?"

"I really hope we don't find out."

Footsteps on the stair, and Captain Brown walked into the kitchen, followed by the medic. "All the survivors are being transported to the secure medical facility, sir," Brown reported.

"And the non-survivors?"

The medic, who had the name Dhillon written on his flack jacket, let his bag fall heavily on the table. "Captain Williams and Lt. Cheeks are coordinating with Stark security to arrange transport the bodies to the morgue at Fort Hamilton," he said. "We can transport them to Cheyenne Mountain from there."

Brown was eyeing the beverage bottles littering the table. "Any more where that came from, sir?"

John waved vaguely at the fridge. "I'm sure Tony won't care."

"Does he got any beer in there?" Sergeant Dhillon asked, going to the sink to wash his hands.

"You do remember you're on duty," Brown retorted.

"I've been on duty for six goddamn months, sir," Dhillon shot back, but he accepted a cola from Brown. "Anything else, Colonel?"

"Yeah, you can check out Sgt. Barnes here, someone bonked him on the head," John said, never opening his eyes.

Dhillon set down his cola with alacrity. "Sergeant," he said, going over to his bag. "Any dizziness or sleepiness? Headaches?"

"Nope," James said, letting the man move to the side of his chair. He touched his head to show the medic where the blow had landed. "Some balance issues, but that's more having my arm torn off."

"Pepper said you'd lost consciousness," John said from his chair.

James clenched his teeth to keep from exclaiming in pain as the medic touched his skull. "So?"

"So," Dhillon said in a calming voice used by medics across the globe. "It's one of those lovely warning signs we have to indicate for brain damage."

"Ain't no big deal, it's happened before," James muttered.

"History of head injury," Dhillon repeated. "Were you having blood pressure problems?"

With anyone else, James would have made some crack about his blood pressure being just fine, but he held his tongue. John had made it quite clear he didn't want to hear any jokes implying anything sexual about Natalia. "Got my arm ripped off, so yeah."

"I'll need to do a subdermal scan."

"Do you got one of those machines like Dr. Keller has?" James asked, interested in spite of himself.

"I do." Dhillon went to his bag and pulled out a small metal case. "Colonel, can I borrow your genes?"

"No need," John said. "Barnes is a natural ATA carrier."

Dhillon and Brown exchanged a look, but said nothing.

Using the same general technique as Dr. Keller had used earlier in the week, Sgt. Dhillon put the metal darts on James' head and made him hold the projector box. After a few minutes of muttering under his breathe, the medic grudgingly admitted that James didn't appear to have any brain damage.

"Awesome," James said as he helped Dhillon pack away the equipment.

"Anything else wrong with you?"

"Not so much," James said. "But could you take the stitches out of my shoulder?"

"That shouldn't be a problem." Dhillon donned blue medical gloves while James shrugged out of his shirt. "Just let me make sure that they're ready to come out."

He poked at James' ruined side with a blank face. Brown, however, didn't have quite that much of a poker face, and he stared down at the nutritional information on his soda can.

James clenched his hand on his lap. He knew how grotesque he looked. He wasn't going to let anyone's reaction bother him.

"Good healing," Dhillon finally said. "I'll take these out now. We don't want the skin to start growing over the sutures."

He pulled various objects out of his medical kit. After wiping down the amputation site with alcohol swabs, he set about snipping through the stitches and pulling them out. The sensation was irritating, but nearly painless; just tugging. It stung slightly when Dhillon used more alcohol swabs on James' shoulder, but then it was over.

"Are you working on the recommended recovery exercise?" Dhillon asked.

"Yeah," James said, pulling his shirt back over his head. "I take out a squad of mercenaries every afternoon. Helps with cardio."

Dhillon removed his gloves with a snap. "Is there anything else, Colonel?"

"Nah," John said, finally sitting up. "You guys head up, connect with Ryder. See if Colonel Carter needs anything."

After the men trekked up the stairs, silence fell in the room. James tried to roll out his back. The painkillers had kicked in, but the muscle strain was still there.

"Well done, today," John said quietly after a few minutes.

James looked at Natalia's son out of the corner of his eye. "What was I supposed to do, lie down and take it?"

"Stop being such an asshole," John said. "I'm trying to say that it's good that you're doing better."

James really did not want this man's pity, so he swallowed his initial desire to throw something at the Colonel, and pasted a smile on his face instead. "Thank you, sir."

John shook his head as he stood. "Come on, you want to see what Carter's found out?"

"You think she's found something already?" James asked, pushing himself to his feet. "Is she that good?"

"Oh yeah," John said, an easy smile on his face. "Sam Carter's the best there is."

* * *

They found Bruce, Tony and Carter all crowded around the wall interface, while Rhodey stood by the Iron Man suit, watching avidly. Ryder was paying attention, but Dhillon and Brown were by the window, taking pictures of each other in front of Tony Stark's multi-billion-dollar view.

"I think we're ready," Carter was saying as John and James approached. 

"Ready for what?" John asked.

Bruce looked up. "Colonel Carter thinks she has removed most of the virus from Jarvis's system."

"Just like that?"

"This was easy," Carter said, referring to her tablet. "The code is nearly an exact duplicate of what was used at Area 51."

John went still. "Does that mean that someone grabbed a copy of Stark's servers?" he demanded.

"No," Carter said quickly. "Part of Jarvis's anti-virus system was designed to send any foreign code calls into an internal spiral. It was separate from the main code and it looks like the programmer didn't know about it."

"Because I, unlike certain military organizations, understand the need to use protection in everything I do," Tony snarked.

Bruce ignored them both. "Jarvis, you should be able to connect with the servers once more," he said, pushing a button on the interface. "Are you ready?"

"Affirmative, Dr. Banner," Jarvis said from the Iron Man suit.

As they bent over the terminal again, Steve came up the stairs, shield still on his arm. He made a beeline to James. "How's it going?" he asked.

James waved his hand at the mess. "Great, I think. How about you?"

"We've sent off the wounded, and the bodies are being loaded up." Steve was frowning. "I don't really like not involving SHIELD in this."

"So call them," James said. "What's Sheppard going to do, demote you?"

Steve leaned against a bit of wall beside James. "Natasha is the senior SHIELD agent at the moment, it's her prerogative."

James didn't buy it for a second. "She's off settling Pepper, maybe she forgot."

"Yeah. Forgot."

They stared at each other for a long moment. It was strange, seeing this man with his strong jaw, his height. But he was still the same old Steve, a little punk full of piss and vinegar.

For the first time in a long time, James didn't feel the urge to punch Steve in the face.

"Anyway," Steve said. "You did good today."

And there it was, that urge to violence back again. "For a cripple, you mean?"

"For anyone," Steve said evenly. "James," and it was such a shock at hearing his name from this man that James kept his mouth shut. "Just take a compliment, will ya?"

James let out a huff of laughter. It was just such a _Steve_ thing to say, that much he remembered.

"Yeah, well, you didn't do too shabby yourself."

"Even if I let Natasha get hurt?"

James rubbed his mouth, turning to speak without being overheard. "The only thing that matters is what Natalia thinks, and if she thinks you're not pulling your weight, she'll tell you herself. Ain't my place to be telling her what she does and doesn't need in the field."

A loud whoop interrupted them. The consol had lit up with colours, and Tony was on his feet and bouncing around.

"All systems appear to be online, sir," Jarvis's voice said from the room's speakers. "Initiating full diagnostic."

"Atta boy," Tony said, stroking the side of the interface. Carter was smiling and shaking hands with Bruce, and John beamed genially on the scene.

"What happened?" Steve asked.

Rhodey turned his head. "It sounds like they got the virus out of Jarvis, so that's good."

"It is more than good, Colonel Rhodes," Jarvis said. "It is most welcome."

"Great, so now that Jarvis is back online, can we scan the Tower or something to figure out what these guys were doing poking around the floors?" James asked.

"As soon as my diagnostic is complete, I will interface with Colonel Sheppard's Puddlejumper sensors to conduct a full scan," Jarvis said.

"Do you know what introduced the virus into your system?"

"The infection site appears to be a security terminal on the main floor," Jarvis told him. "This site and login access coincides with Ms. Potts' security team from this morning, before they left to meet Ms. Potts at the airport."

"Someone logged in and booted in the virus?" James asked. He was secretly relieved, that he hadn't inadvertently done something to hurt Jarvis. He liked the AI, even if he didn't understand him.

"Yes."

James frowned, as John turned around. "What are you thinking?" John asked.

"That they probably stole their partner's access," James agreed. "No one would be so dumb as to use their own login, and something like this isn't imaginative to think that far outside the box."

"Why is it always the stupid ones?" John asked rhetorically.

"Because the smart ones don't get caught."

"If you two are finished with the Abbot and Costello routine," Tony interrupted. "Sheppard, go get your ass in the chair so we can scan my Tower. Rhodey, go with him."

Sheppard made his way to the stairs, telling Rhodey about the Puddlejumper as they went. James moved to rest against the wall, wondering what Natalia was doing, if Pepper was all right, if they'd ever know what the hell was going on and who had engineered the attack.

"Now what?" Steve asked under his breath, standing beside James.

"We wait for the other shoe to drop," James replied. He raised his eyebrows at Steve's look. "Someone has the balls to try to pull this off, and you think they won't try again?"

"Fuck." Steve leaned against the wall. "How the hell to we fight something we don't know about?"

"It's easy," James said. "We wait, and we don't sleep until we figure it out."

"Great."

Of all the people in the room, Steve was the only one who would understand how deadly serious James was.

They had to figure this out.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

It was closing in on two in the morning when James finally pulled himself out of the bathtub. He had spent so long soaking his aching bones that the skin on his fingertips had shrivelled into raisin patterns. The bath, with the mild muscle relaxants from the SGC medic and the half-dozen painkillers he'd taken that day, had left his body loose and relaxed, in spite of the day's punishments.

They still might not know who sent the mercenaries to kidnap Pepper, but they had emerged alive after the battle, if not completely victorious. Sometimes, that was all that could be asked for.

Pleasantly warm and close to sleep, James dried himself off, being careful to avoid the sore spot on his skull when he ran the towel over his head. Natalia had said she would be back soon, and they could go to bed. A faint twinge of anxiety plucked in James' chest, but he pushed that away. It was so late, and the day had been very long; surely all any of them wanted to do was sleep. But his mind would not stop replaying the events of the very long day.

* * *

After the survivors of the attack and the bodies of the not-so-fortunate had been packed off to the secure facility at Fort Hamilton with Sgt. Dhillon and Captains Brown and Williams, John and Tony had spent hours running scans of the top floors in the Avengers' Tower, while Colonel Carter and Bruce focused on the Goa'uld computer virus that had infected Jarvis, with Specialist Ryder aiding them unobtrusively. Colonel Rhodes bounced back and forth between the pairs, mostly to deflect when John and Tony started sniping at each other.

There were some past issues between the two men, that much was obvious, but it had not been the right time for James to try to figure it out what was going on.

Once John confirmed that there were no other living creatures in the top part of the Tower, Natalia had pulled Steve to his feet and hauled him and Lt. Cheeks off to do another floor-by-floor search. The lieutenant, who had been restless with boredom, had jumped at the opportunity for action and, less obviously, a chance to spend time with Captain America. James had noticed Steve's minor discomfort with more amusement than irritation.

He supposed that was progress.

James hadn't felt like doing anything, so after a while he slipped out of the penthouse and down the stairs to the communal kitchen. His adrenaline rush from the morning's attack had faded, leaving him aching and exhausted all over. He supposed it was nice, to know he was still able to perform in the field, but at the same time, if there had been any more attackers, he was painfully aware that his body would have given out at some point.

He had to be better than that. He had to be.

So while the various Avengers and Stargate personnel worked diligently to patch Jarvis back together and to make the Tower safe again, James put on the kettle in Tony Stark's expensive kitchen, poked around in the oversized fridge and freezer, and had just emerged with a frozen lasagna under his arm and the paper wrapping of an ice cream bar clenched between his teeth when Pepper Potts came back into the kitchen.

She had changed into exercise pants and a hoodie, and was carrying an armful of paper and a tablet computer. She gave James a tired smile. He put the lasagna on the counter and opened his mouth to let the ice cream bar drop into his hand. "Your boss never gives you a break?" he asked.

Pepper slid into a chair at the table. "There are days when I work less than when I had a boss," she said. "Is there tea?"

"There will be in a few minutes." James proffered the ice cream. "Hungry?"

Pepper held out her hands, and James tossed over the bar. She unwrapped it without comment and watched James while he attempted to decipher the instructions on the frozen casserole.

Through some small miracle of packaging, James was able to remove the cellophane from the aluminum tray, turn on the oven, and locate some tea before the kettle boiled. He made two mugs of tea, carried one over to Pepper, then retrieved his own mug and slumped down into a chair across the table from the woman.

She smiled her thanks and bent over her paperwork. James slumped in the chair and blew over his hot tea, nearly scalding his mouth when he slurped at the hot liquid. The quiet settled over the room, with faint noises from the floor above.

The oven timer had just sounded when Steven and Lt. Cheeks wandered back into the room, Natalia trailing behind them. Natalia took one look at James, trying to figure out the oven mitt, and brushed past the men to assist.

"I don't know if this will be any good," James said to Natalia in Russian. Natalia donned the heat-proof gloves, removed the bubbling casserole from the oven, and kicked the oven door closed as she put the tray on top of the stove.

"Clint has an arrangement with an Italian restaurant in Queens, they keep him in stock with good food," Natalia responded in kind, poking a fork into the middle of the lasagna. As she spoke, she moved sideways half a step, within a hair's breath of James' body.

He stayed where he was, the warmth from Natalia's body radiating against his. She smelled of sweat and blood, gunpowder and metal. He shifted his weight, pressing against her shoulder and kissing her head, careful to avoid the blood matting her hair. How many times had they stood like this after a battle, bloodied but unbeaten?

He breathed against her hair, conscious of the others in the room, but he didn't want to move away from Natalia.

Natalia pulled the fork out of the lasagna and touched it to her lips. "It's done," she said.

"So why aren't we eating?" James asked.

Natalia moved away from him to push the lasagna to the back of the stove. "It needs to sit," she admonished him. "Patience."

Her eyes were large as she looked up at him; the bruise on her cheek healing quickly. James reached up and brushed the flaking blood off her temple. She leaned into his touch, not even blinking as she stared at him.

"I came down to find you in case you needed help," James said quietly. "I should have known that you would not need me."

Natalia put her hand on James' chest, her fingernails digging sharp through the fabric of his shirt. "Being able to defend myself and my friends does not mean I do not welcome you at my side," she said, her voice for his ears only. "We are good together."

James restrained himself from making a crack about how well she now worked with Steve; it was a petty thought and would not be helpful. Instead, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles one by one, drawing a smile from her lips.

They were interrupted as Tony clattered down the steps. "Is there food?" he demanded, making a beeline to the fridge. James drew away from Natalia as the rest of the group filed into the kitchen.

"Of course there's food," Natalia said in English. "We have guests."

"I'm aware we have guests, they've been cluttering up my penthouse for hours." Tony emerged from the fridge with a plastic tub of cut lettuce and a tray of sliced vegetables. "Someone get plates."

Bruce went to the cupboards while Rhodey helped Pepper clear her work off the table. At a glance from John, SG-19 settled around the table. Colonel Carter shook her head at the chaos, but accepted the offered chair next to Steve.

James stayed out of the way as Natalia hefted the lasagna and moved it over to the table. Before he could move to take a seat, however, John caught his eye.

"Save me a piece, will you?" James asked Natalia. She looked over her shoulder at him, saw John, and nodded.

John walked to the corner of the kitchen and James followed him, just out of earshot of the group. He waited until James had drawn near before speaking.

"How are you doing?"

James raised his eyebrows at the question. "I've had better mornings."

"Anything else I need to know about the situation?"

James looked at the man, weighing his answer. "No, but I have a question," he said. John nodded. "Why did you have the non-disclosure papers for Colonel Rhodes?"

A glimmer of humor passed through John's eyes. "It wasn't for the Iron Patriot armor, if that's what you're thinking," he said. "Rhodey and I never crossed in the Academy; I joined after college; Rhodey was ROTC. But after the whole Iron Man thing, him liaising with Stark Industries, Homeworld Security kept an eye on him."

"So he was already cleared for the Stargate program."

John shrugged. "An opportunity presented itself."

James caught a sliver of movement. Steve was watching them. Not sure if Super Soldier hearing could make out their words through the din at the table, James switched to Russian. "Do you think that one day he will be pulled into the Stargate program itself?"

"Before today, I would have said that I was not sure." John's Russian was grammatically accurate, but his accent was atrociously American. "But now, with the idea that the Goa'uld may have their tentacles deeper into Earth? And going after the Avengers? I don't know why Isis did this, but if it was for a deeper purpose, the program will need someone we can trust. Rhodey has proven that he can work with both Tony and Stark Industries."

James considered this. "When you say it like that, it doesn't sound devious at all."

John wrinkled his nose. "Thank you. I think."

The smell of the lasagna was floating on the air, making James' mouth water. He was torn; years of conditioning told him to go fight the group of hungry men for food; first in the orphanage, then in the war. But, as he had been telling himself for days now, he was not controlled by his body's urges. If the food ran out, he would simply go and find more.

"Can I ask you something else?" James turned his back to the group, in case Natalia was watching them. "The men who attacked the tower today, you already had a military transport in route you got here."

"That's not a question."

"They attacked a group associated with SHIELD, but you didn't offer them to SHIELD, you came in here pushing for the military to take them into custody."

"It's still not a question."

"Actually, it is."

John met James' gaze for a long moment, then he sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "I need to know what Isis was doing," he said after a minute. His Russian was getting sloppy, but understandable. "SHIELD has eyes on this planet, but the worst-case scenario with Isis could destabilize half a galaxy. We're talking upwards of a trillion people."

"Everyone thought she was dead for centuries. How could she cause all this trouble?"

John breathed in through his nose. "Over the years, we've uncovered cults dedicated to Isis. Some entire planets have civilizations centered around her."

"But they thought she was dead."

"They thought she was martyred," John corrected. "A martyred god with the greatest powers in the universe, all of a sudden back from the dead."

"It worked out okay for Jesus," James quipped, although the conversation was making him uncomfortable; a childhood in a Catholic orphanage drilled into him, even if he no longer believed.

"Jesus rose after three days, and look what happened," John said. "If the galaxy finds out that Isis is still alive after all these centuries, it's going to make the Crusades look like a tea party."

He went to move around James, but James held up his hand. A sudden thought had occurred to him. "One question," he said, switching back to English for John's sake. "Christ wasn't… you know, an alien, was he?"

"Jesus? No, not him." James smiled, and went over to the table.

More disturbed than reassured by John's phrasing, James followed.

Natalia had saved two plates of lasagna for them. James tried not to be jealous as she pushed the larger serving towards John. His jealousy faded as Natalia shifted to the side in her chair, letting James perch beside her. John had to go around the table to sit beside Bruce.

"Good conversation?" Natalia asked quietly as James picked up a fork.

"Interesting." James used the fork to cut off a square of pasta, and lifted it to his mouth. It had cooled somewhat, but was delicious. He made a note to ask Natalia about Clint Barton's mysterious Italian connection, and bent over the meal.

As he ate, he was aware of the conversation around him, Tony's loud words bouncing around Carter's rapid-fire responses, Rhodey's questions weaving between them. The others spoke low, and Natalia's thigh was warm pressed against his.

Natalia's hand settled on the small of his back, and she sighed as she played with the fabric of his waistband.

Finally, after hours (days?), James began to relax.

* * *

The inevitable encounter with Steve came after dark. After the final scanning was complete, Jarvis had found that only two of the apartments had been breached during the power outage – Steve's, which James had seen, and Bruce's. Natalia had offered to go with Bruce to look around and see if they had taken anything. Bruce had been disturbed enough by the revelation that Pepper had also volunteered to help.

The military personnel, save for Rhodey, had departed before dinner. Tony had followed Colonel Carter as she walked into the Puddlejumper, them talking about the Goa'uld virus the whole while. Ryder and Cheeks had bid James a farewell, Ryder actually shaking his hand.

John lifted his hand in a farewell, then the Puddlejumper door was closing and the ship vanished from sight.

Dinner was a subdued affair. Bruce was glum and Tony distracted talking with Rhodey. Pepper was trying to bury herself in her work and Steve ate as if he might never see food again.

The only saving grace was that Natalia sat beside James, and while they ate she rested her hand on his knee under the table.

After dinner, Rhodey got into the Iron Patriot armor and blasted off for parts unknown. Tony hauled Bruce down to the labs and Pepper went with them, carrying her tablet computer. If she was trying to demonstrate to the rest of them that she was fine, she didn't seem convinced herself.

Natalia excused herself with the mention of some housekeeping. From her tone, James was sure she meant more than just vacuuming. Someone had to make sure that the personnel in the building wouldn't send another round of mercenaries up to kill them in their sleep.

Pepper's security team was still in military custody, although James had overheard Rhodey tell Pepper that they'd be treated as fairly as possible under the circumstances.

James wasn't too worried about them. John seemed like a decent guy. He'd figure out which one it was, then ship the innocent one back to them.

When it was just James and Steve left in the kitchen, James let out a groan and slid down in his chair.

"You okay?" Steve asked. "You look like shit."

"Fuck you," James said without any rancor. "I took out half a squad of armed men with only one arm, I'm a little tired."

"How's your head?"

"I'll live." He turned his head in Steve's direction. "What about you?"

"I'm fine."

Steve sounded far from fine, but he looked so exhausted that James didn't call him on it. "Do you always take your shield when you're training?" he asked, changing the subject.

Steve rested his elbows on the table, a bad habit he'd brought with him into the orphanage. "No. Those guys who were in my apartment, what if they were looking for the shield when they were in there? What if I'd left it there?"

"Don't be a dumbass," James said without thinking. Steve jerked his head up. "If those assholes took your shield, you'd justa chased them down and punched them ‘til they gave it back."

"But—"

"What's gotten into you?" James demanded. "You know damn well what you'd do, and you know anyone in this tower would help you do it. Same thing as when we was kids."

And there were pieces of memory in his head as he spoke, of Steve's good ideas and him following along, first in Brooklyn and then in the War and while James might still be angry about things he couldn't explain, he was damned sure that he wasn't the only one who'd followed Steve because of who the man was, not how good he looked in the Captain America outfit.

Steve was staring at James. "What kinds of things when we were kids?"

"You know," James said, shifting back in his chair. "Like art school, that was a hoot and a half. Or how about when the senior boys stole Mary Anne's bicycle and we stole it back?"

"It's not the same thing," Steve objected. "That was just kids' stuff."

James rolled his eyes. "Fine, how about like any of the guys in Germany?" he asked. He was starting to get annoyed with Steve, and he wanted to cross his arms over his chest to make a point. Only he was down an arm, so he settled for drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "You going to fight with me on that one?"

Steve shook his head. He stood and went to the sink, filled a glass with water, and came back to the table. "Where's Natasha?" he asked.

"Busy," James said shortly.

"Right." Steve took a drink of water, then set the glass on the table. "Is it weird for you, to work with Colonel Sheppard like that?"

James' heart rate sped up. "Like what?" he asked carefully.

"Well, he's Natasha's son, and now he's your CO."

James made himself relax. Steve didn't know about John's paternity. No one knew, except for John and Natalia and, unfortunately, General Jack O'Neill. But no one else.

"It's not a big deal," James said. "I only ever met him once when he was a kid. He's just a guy, you know."

For some reason, Steve cracked a smile at that. "Yeah, a guy who used to run a floating city in another galaxy."

"Nat mentioned that." James still found it hard to reconcile the idea of alien civilizations up in the sky, even though he'd heard all about the Goa'uld and the Jaffa and other aliens. "Is it any weirder than you getting some weird serum and going off to fight Nazis?"

"I guess not." Steve's smile softened. "It sure would be something, to see another world, wouldn't it?"

"I'm sure if you asked nicely, SG-19 would take you along on their next off-world trip."

"Aw, come on, it ain't like that."  


"Steve, Cheeks was about ten seconds away from asking for your autograph this afternoon."

"He's got a good background in urban search tactics," Steve protested. "He said he's been working with the Stargate program for almost six years."

"Which ain't going to make hanging out with Captain American any less noteworthy." James pushed his chair back. "I should go find Natalia and see if she needs any help."

"Yeah." Steve downed the last of his water. "I should go find Bruce. I offered to bunk in with him tonight."

James frowned "Why?"

Steve shrugged. "He hasn't really had a chance to go through his place yet and figure out of the mercenaries took anything. I thought he'd feel better if he wasn't in there alone."

"What about your place?"

"I'll deal with that tomorrow." Steve rose to his feet. "I know Jarvis said they didn't leave anything behind, but I don't want to think about them touching my stuff."

James looked at Steve for a long minute. As children in the orphanage, they didn't have any personal space. Even after, when they were rooming together as a young men, their apartment had been small and cramped and they were nearly always on top of each other when they weren't working.

The War had been even less private; on the front or in the barracks, Steve and James had always been crowded in by dozens of other men, that was just the way it was.

And now, if Natalia's rooms were any indication, Steve had a large spacious apartment all to himself in Tony Stark's tower.

For the first time, James wondered if Steve was lonely.

"Look," James said awkwardly, shifting his weight so his back was straight. "You want help going over your stuff tomorrow?"

"You'd do that?" Steve asked, obviously surprised. "I mean, a few days ago you were going to knock my block off for sparring with Natasha."

"Yeah, ‘cause I thought you were someone else." James felt his face getting red. "You know what? Forget it."

"No," Steve said quickly. "I'd like the help."

"Right." James pushed his hair back from his face. "So, um, tomorrow then."

Steve nodded, and James turned and headed to the stairs.

The echo from earlier in the day was strong on the stairs, now lit bright and warm from the arc reactor far under the city. James walked in the middle of the steps, circling down and down, past the place where he'd taken out the two attackers on Steve's floor, down and down until he reached Natalia's floor. The door opened easily at his eye-scan, and he was inside.

The room appeared unchanged from that morning. Jarvis had said that there had been no unauthorized entry into Natalia's room, but James didn't think that Natalia would rest easy on that.

Sure enough, he heard sounds from the kitchen, and when he went to investigate, he found Natalia systematically throwing away all her food.

He stood in the entranceway, watching Natalia take jars and containers out of the fridge, and empty them into a large garbage bag on the table.

"How is Steve?" Natalia asked as she drained a jar of pickles into the sink, then put the contents into the trash.

"He'll live," James said. He frowned as Natalia reached for the small plastic box that held the last of the baklava she'd made for his ‘sixth-day' celebration in Stark Tower. "I was going to eat that."

"I will make you more," Natalia told him. Next, she reached for the cold chicken he'd hoped to eat for a bedtime snack that night.

"Are you all right?" James asked, making his way into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard, thinking to make himself a cup of tea, but Natalia had already thrown out all the tea. And the coffee.

"I do not like the idea of anyone coming in to the place I sleep," Natalia said shortly.

"So that means I have to starve to death?"

Natalia paused, a jar of peanut butter in her hand. "You ate as much as I did at dinner."

"I had a busy day. And Jarvis said that no one got in here."

Natalia raised her eyebrow. "Well then," she said, and handed him the jar.

He looked at the jar, half-full of peanut butter. The paste was just the right consistency to hide any chemical additives, especially when stirred in. Jarvis had said that there was no sign the mercenaries had been in Natalia's apartment, but given that they didn't know what they had been after, nor what had brought them there with Isis' code in the first place… James handed the jar back to Natalia, and she dropped it into the garbage bag.

"I'm going to go take a shower," he said. "Aren't you tired?"

"I will finish this and then come to bed." Natalia tied the first bag closed, then shook open another bag. "I will not take long."

"Do you want any help?"

"No." Natalia put the bag down on the table, and came over to him. "This is an old woman's paranoia. You go."

She put her hands on his chest and went up on her toes to kiss him. Her lips were warm against his, the kiss gentle, and James closed his eyes at how _safe_ this woman made him feel.

When she pulled back from him, Natalia was smiling.

James headed into the bathroom, shucking off his clothes as he went. He'd changed out of the bloodied clothes from that morning, but the air of the day had leeched into his clothing and to his skin.

Now, at the end of the day, he could afford to let himself breathe.

In the white room, James looked at himself in the mirror. His body was beginning to show bruises from the day, and he had suffered various superficial grazes, but nothing serious.

He ran his hand down his chest, over his belly, to his hip. This was the worst of it, a large bruise purpling just over his hipbone. He must have slammed against the stone of Stark's bar as he dove for cover from the flash grenade, back when this all started. He was lucky he hadn't done any damage to his joints.

He let out a sigh. That was just what he needed. A broken hip, to make him even more useless as a man.

Speaking of which, James made himself turn and look at his left side. Now that the stitches were gone, he could see how the shoulder was healing. The skin was setting down, showing how the scars would rest against the concave surface where his shoulder had once been.

James ran his fingers over the thickest part of the scar. Dr. Keller had said there was good blood flow to the area, so it would continue to heal well. But without any chance of putting another arm on him… what did he have to look forward to? A clunky, useless prosthesis tied to his body with straps?

He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to wear some mannequin's arm under his clothing just to make other people feel less unconformable around the cripple. Either they could handle the fact that he had one arm, or they could fuck the hell off.

James pressed on the scar. It didn't hurt much anymore, not like it had when it was first healing. Maybe he could try sleeping on his side again, at least for a little while.

Shaking his head, James opened the drawer where Natalia kept the medicine. He still had one muscle relaxant left from the medic, Sgt. Dhillon, and taking a painkiller this close to bed probably wouldn't dull his faculties too much.

He swallowed the pills with a handful of water and wiped his mouth as he walked toward the shower stall. He hesitated however, and changed direction to the bathtub.

He'd had a long day. Maybe a soak would help his aching muscles.

He turned on the water, made sure there was soap and a washcloth close to hand, and stepped into the steaming tub with a sigh of satisfaction. Sometimes, at the end of a hard day, taking a moment to relax was almost worth the pain.

Hoping he hadn't jinxed himself with that thought, James leaned back against the porcelain. "Jarvis?" he called.

"Sgt. Barnes," Jarvis replied instantly. "Are you well?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing. How you feeling?"

"I am recovering," Jarvis said. "My computational pathways are once again functioning without complication, and I am able to access all servers."

"I'm glad to hear it," James said, sinking lower in the water. "You had a lot of people pretty worried."

"Indeed." There was a pause. "May I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"What does it feel like to be stabbed?"

James glanced up at the ceiling sharply. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

"I am, but in attempting to describe what I am going through in human terms is proving… difficult."

James sat up to turn off the taps. The water was so warm it was almost hot, and it was delicious against his bruises. "I suppose it's different for everyone. I've been slashed a few times, but that was just bloody and painful."

"You told Captain Rogers in the gymnasium the other day that you had been stabbed in Kazakhstan."

James pulled his knees up, and rested his elbow on the side of the tub. "That was different," he said. "That was… well, he stabbed me in the chest. The knife went in deep."

He looked at the water swirling around his legs in Natalia's bathtub, and when he breathed in, the memory of dry summer dust filled his mouth.

"At first it didn't feel like anything, just that something was wrong. I tried to fight around it, but then Osinov pushed me out of the train. It wasn't far to the ground, but when I landed I couldn't get up."

Dust in his mouth. Blood in his mouth.

"The pain came slow, but the worst part was that I knew something was wrong and there wasn't nothing I could do to push it away."

"I see," Jarvis said quietly. "That is similar to the sensations I felt this morning with the Goa'uld computer code."

James cleared his throat, pushing away the choking memories of dust and blood. "We sure are glad you're doing better."

"Thank you for that." Jarvis paused. "Would you care to listen to any music, or peruse any news sites?"

James sighed, reaching for the soap. "How are things going with my Namibia searches?" he asked. It was a good reminder that no matter how much he had done that day, there was always more to do.

After he scrubbed away the sweat from his skin, he drained the tub, refilled it with scalding water, and washed his hair, going back and forth with Jarvis over the state of the world. Eventually, Jarvis withdrew, bidding James a good night as James sank down in the tub, letting his body rest in the cooling water.

It was late, nearly two in the morning when James finally pulled himself out of the bathtub. He had spent so long soaking his aching bones that the skin on his fingertips had shrivelled. Warm and sleepy, James dried himself off, carefully avoiding the sore spot on his skull when he ran the towel over his head. It was time for bed, as soon as Natalia was back. A faint twinge of anxiety plucked in James' chest, but he pushed that away. It was so late, and the day had been very long; surely all any of them wanted to do was sleep.

Hanging the damp towels neatly on the rack, James walked into the bedroom. He found the shirt and boxers he'd been using as pyjamas on the floor where he'd left them that morning. He gave them a sniff, figured he could get a few more nights' wear out of them, and put them on before climbing under the covers.

There he lay, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for Natalia to come to bed.

After a few minutes, he heard a click and Natalia walked into the bedroom, still wearing her clothes from the day. "Look at you, all tucked in," she said as she went to the dresser. "I'm going to shower, I'll be right back."

"Take your time," James said. "I'll be here."

 Natalia smiled at him over an armful of clothing, then she vanished into the bathroom, closing the door tight behind her.

James shifted around on the mattress to make himself comfortable. He tried rolling onto his left side. The pressure against his empty arm socket didn't hurt, but it wasn't exactly pleasant. He rolled onto his back. Maybe he'd try that again in a few days when he'd had more time to heal.

The shower turned on in the bathroom.

To keep himself awake until Natalia returned, James pulled her pillow over to him and rested his face on it. The pillow smelled of Natalia's hair, and he breathed in deeply, suddenly struck that this could have been the day that one or the other of them had met their end.

But that had not happened. They had survived the day, just like all the other days before.

One day, it would end; one or the other of them would make a mistake, or just be overpowered, and they would die. That was life. He'd accepted that fact long ago. He'd accepted it twice; once when he was Bucky Barnes, on the battlefield of Europe, and again when he woke to life as the Winter Soldier.

On some of the very long, very dark days, he had even welcomed the idea of death, that his pain would end, that he would just _stop_. He had long since stopped hoping for anything on the other side of death.

But today, or rather the day before, they had faced death, and they had lived.

In the bathroom, the shower stopped, and James smiled to himself. Soon, Natalia would be in bed with him, and they would sleep. They would wake up in the morning, and there would be another day of being alive. He might only have one arm, but he was not completely useless, not as ruined as he had first thought after the amputation. At the very least, he could help Stark and the Stargate people find out who had attacked Jarvis, and make them pay. He owed Jarvis that much.

The bathroom door opened and closed, a soft click. In tired contentment, James turned his head towards the door. What he saw pulled him from half-asleep to full wakefulness in one quick moment.

Natalia was wearing lingerie.

James sat up quickly, his aching abdominal and back muscles protesting at the sudden movement. It wasn't just that Natalia was wearing lingerie, some black satin and lace thing that clung to her curves, stopping below her waist, showing a thin line of soft skin above some low-cut lacy panties. It was that her hair was down, waves framing her face; she was wearing lipstick and her eyes seemed bigger than they had before she went into the bathroom.

James clutched at the blankets in his lap, torn between the sudden desire in his head and panic that the arousal wasn't making itself known elsewhere in his body.

"Hey," Natalia said with a smile. She walked across the room, all leg and soft curves. James pushed himself back until his shoulders hit the wall, then he grabbed at the blanket and bunched it in his lap. "I'm glad you're still awake."

James swallowed hard. "Me too."

Natalia reached the edge of the bed and put one knee on the mattress, besides James' hip. The movement drew James' attention to her thighs, the dark lace between her legs, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching out. He ran his hand over her knee, to the inside of her thigh, caressing her impossibly soft skin.

Natalia let out her breath in a sigh as she touched his face, cupping his cheek as he slid his hand back down towards her knee. "That was nice," she whispered.

James heart pounded as Natalia crawled over him and lay on her side, propping up her head with one hand. He knew that look on her face; the enjoyment, the anticipation, knowing what would come next.

Btu he _couldn't_. It didn't matter how much he wanted this; his cock hadn't so much as twitched at the sight of this beautiful woman.

"So I was thinking," Natalia said as she placed her hand on his hip, pulling gently at him until he slid down to the bed, until he was lying next to her, only the thin covers separating them. "About how amazing you were today."

"You were thinking that?" James asked, unable to process. All this time, all this history between them, and this was it. When she realized that he couldn't give her what she wanted, she'd push him out of her bed and there was nothing he could do about it.

"I was," Natalia said, oblivious to his panic. She shifted closer, her body pressing against his through the covers. "And I thought, maybe I could kiss you."

She looked at him, her eyes so green in the dim light. The words caught in his throat and he nodded instead, and Natalia leaned in and kissed him.

Unlike the brief touches of lip from the previous few days, this kiss was not chaste. Natalia curled against him as she kissed him, her lips parting almost immediately, her tongue warm against his. James responded instinctively to her kiss, wrapping his arm around her waist to hold her close. She made a low contented sound deep in her throat, vibrating all the way down to James' core.

Then she shifted, and two things happened at once. Her hand slid from his waist up his left side, brushing over the place where his left arm had once attached to his body, just as she moved her knee between his legs.

Her hand on his left shoulder was fire; the press of her leg against his limp dick was ice. James pulled back from her so quickly he nearly pulled something in his back.

"I'm going to sleep on the couch," he said in a rush, not thinking about his words. He had to get away. "I'm going to have nightmares, so I'll sleep on the couch."

"James?" Natalia said, sitting up and reaching for him as he slid away from her, nearly falling off the bed.

"It's been a long day, you need sleep," he blurted out on, stumbling to his feet and grabbing one of the blankets off the bed. "I'll see you in the morning."

Burning with humiliation, he couldn't even look at her as he hurried out of the room, fumbling open the bedroom door and out into the darkened living room.

Avoiding the furniture, he navigated by the faint light from the clock to his favourite spot on the sofa. He collapsed heavily onto the cushions, breathing as if he'd just sprinted a mile. Panic churned close to terror in his chest and he couldn't breathe around the rock in his gut.

He hadn't wanted it to end like this.

As far back as he could remember, ever since Natalia first came to his bed, he had been able to respond to her needs. He'd taken a secret pride in that; finding out how to please her, and then making her enjoy his company in bed. Whether it was making love for hours, or a quick fuck after a mission, he had always been able to give her everything she wanted.

All that was over now.

He pulled the blanket over his lap, the threat of tears burning his eyes. What good was he, if he couldn't even do that? The most basic function of a body, what it meant to be a man, and he wasn't even that.

He shouldn't have come to New York. Once he'd gotten on that bus in Colorado, he should have just kept on going.

A light went on. James put his hand over his eyes to block out the sudden glare. He could hear Natalia moving in the room, nearly silent footfalls on the carpet, the brush of fabric over skin.

The cushions at his side moved as Natalia sat down. James took a moment to calm himself, removing all emotions from his expression, then he lowered his hand and sat back.

Natalia had put on a robe, something fluffy and bulky, covering all of that lovely lingerie. She sat a small distance from him, close but not touching, and it was as if she was miles away.

"I need to apologize," she said before James could speak.

"There's nothing to apologize for," James responded. He moved the blanket to cover his thighs, as if he was getting ready to sleep. "You've got a lot to do tomorrow, it's better if I sleep out here."

"That isn't what I mean." Natalia pulled her legs up, curling in on herself. She looked down at her hands for a long moment. "I wasn't thinking. Maybe I was afraid to ask."

James breathed out through his nose. All he wanted to do was curl up in the dark and try to forget how broken he was.

"We haven't talked about what Isis said," Natalia was saying, and that was unexpected enough for James to look at her.

"What do you mean?"

"What Isis said they had done with you, all those years," Natalia explained. "That they put you in my bed to control me." She took a deep breath. "I never asked you if that… changed how you thought of me. Of us."

James was shaking his head before she finished speaking. "Fuck him," James said angrily. "You and me, that doesn't have anything to do with him."

He reached for Natalia's hand. She slid her fingers through his, holding on tight.

"They could throw us together all they wanted, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. They couldn't tell us how to feel." James shifted closer to Natalia, his knee touching hers. "They could put all the crap in my head they wanted, but they were never able to make me feel something I didn't want to, not for long."

Natalia ran her tongue over her lower lip, watching him steadily. "What about those things you said in Colorado?"

"What things?" James asked, slightly uneasy.

"After John made you admit that you remembered who you were, you said to me that you didn't know how you could love me. You asked me how much of your mind Department X had to tear apart to make you think you loved me."

Her voice was soft, but her words ripped at him. He had said those things to her, that and so much more. At the time, he had been angry and scared, hadn't wanted to admit to her or to Steve that he remembered parts of his past.

Because how could James Buchanan Barnes and the Winter Soldier be the same man?

"I didn't…" His voice caught in his throat as he tried to pull his hand away from Natalia, but she held on. "I didn't mean that."

"Then why did you say it?"

This time he managed to get his hand away from Natalia. He stood and paced the length of the room, stopping beside the wall with the weapons on it. The fabric had been pulled back, every weapon exposed. "It was for the best," he said, running his fingers over the sheath of a large dagger. "Whatever happened down there, if they'd wanted to execute me or not, you didn't know James Barnes." He tapped his thumbnail against the dagger's hilt, wishing the churning in his gut would go away. "Maybe that'd have been better if you never did."

Natalia was in front of him then; he hadn't even heard her move. "Don't say that," she said, angry. "It would not have been better if I did not love you!"

"How can you say that?" James demanded. "How could you want to be saddled with _this_?" He slapped at his empty left shoulder, wincing at the pain. "It's only a matter of time until—"

"Until what?" Natalia stepped into his personal space. "Tell me what I would do!"

"Until you get rid of me!" James nearly shouted.

The expression on Natalia's face w as a mix of anger and incredulity. "Why would I get rid of you?"

He stepped away from her, hauling his shirt up over his head. "Because of this!" He threw the shirt across the room, then deliberately turned his left side to Natalia. "I'm ruined, Natalia, and the sooner you realize that the better off we'll both be."

"You think the only reason I love you is because you're pretty?" Natalia demanded. "Because you're strong?"

"I'm not any of that, not anymore." The words were acid in his mouth, but there was no time for any more secrets between them. "I'm not even a man anymore, what good am I to you?"

Natalia stared at him. "I didn't fall in love with you because of how you look," she said. The sudden softness of her voice made the words hurt even more. "You were the first person who looked at me like I was a person. Like I mattered."

She took a step toward him, then another. When he didn't move, she reached out and took his hand in hers.

"You taught me how to survive, James. More than that. You made me realize that I had a right to survive."

"Of course you did," he said, not knowing how the conversation had been turned around like this. Hadn't she heard him? Didn't she understand?

"Do you trust me?" she asked out of nowhere.

The open look in her eyes nearly killed him. He wanted to yell at her to run away, to let him go, but in the end he knew he was the weak one. He wouldn't be strong enough to push her away.

"You know I do," he said weakly.

She put her free hand on his chest. "Do you trust me to know my own mind?"

"Nat—"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Natalia squeezed his hand, and stepped against him so the fabric of her robe brushed against his chest. The sensation made the hairs on his arms stand up in the cool air of the living room. "Then trust me." She reached up to cup his face with both hands. "Trust me, James, that I want you here with me."

"You can't," he protested, pulling away. This time, Natalia let him go. "How can you say that when they did this to me?"

"James—"

"How can you even look at me?" His voice cracked with a resurgence of humiliation. "This, what I am… it's repulsive."

Natalia sat on the arm of the couch, looking up at him. "Is that what you think?"

He pushed his hair back from his face. "How can I not?"

Natalia held out her hand, palm up. James looked at it for a long moment. He was so tired that he _hurt_. All he wanted to do was fall over and sleep, warm beside Natalia. He walked across the room, taking Natalia's hand and sitting heavily on the sofa beside her.

"What happened to you was repulsive," she said quietly, slipping her hand around the back of his neck. "The violence done to you, that was repulsive. What you look like now, that is nothing of the kind. You're still the man I love."

"You can't honestly tell me that you look at me and you still want me," James said, disgust filling his mouth.

Natalia's fingers tightened against the back of his neck, a steady pressure. "I expect you to respect that I know what I want."

"And you want me," James whispered. A nervous energy was brewing in his head, something he didn't understand and wasn't sure he could trust.

"I do."

James closed his eyes and leaned over to rest his head on her thigh. Natalia stroked his hair as he breathed against the fabric of her robe, wanting to believe that Natalia was speaking the truth.

He wanted to believe that she still wanted him.

After a few minutes, Natalia's hand stilled. "Come on," she said. "Come to bed."

James sat up. Of course, it had been too good to last. He took a deep breath, and let it out. "I can't."

"Why not?"

He looked down at his hand on his lap. He didn't want to tell Natalia, but he had to. "I, um."

She waited.

"Ever since this, well, all of this happened…" James cleared his throat. "Things aren't working like they should be."

A rustle of movement and Natalia was moving to sit on the table across from the sofa, where there was no escape from her scrutiny. "Do you mean sexually?"

Hearing her say it out loud was a hundred times worse than James had thought possible. "Yeah. I just… I can't get it up. Not in bed with you, not in the shower, nowhere."

James hazarded a glance at Natalia. She was regarding him with concern and understanding, and he didn't understand how she could know all she did about him and still look at him like that. "Have you spoken to anyone about it?" she asked.

James shrugged. "I mentioned it to Dr. Keller the other day. She said it was to be expected that things might take some time to get back to normal. Because I went through trauma or some bullshit."

"Don't say it like that," Natalia interrupted him. "You're human, James. What Isis did to you was extremely damaging."

"It wouldn't have slowed Steve down," James muttered. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he shook his head. He wasn't sure why he'd said that. He must be more tired than he realised.

"You know it would have," Natalia said quietly, and something about the way she said the words made James' mind jump to imagining it, of Steve lying on that cold concrete floor in Texas, arm ripped from his body and bleeding out and dying and it was so vivid in his imagination that he had to put his hand over his face, pressing against his eyes to try to get the image out of his head.

He felt Natalia's hands on his shoulders, a gentle pressure pulling him to his feet. "Don't tell Steve I said that," James said as Natalia guided him across the living room floor.

"Of course I won't." She paused to turn out the lights, then stepped behind James through the bedroom door and closed the door. The only illumination in the room was the bedside lamp, a small warm glow casting shadows on the walls. As Natalia undid the belt on her robe, James sank onto the bed, watching her mutely.

There was nothing inherently seductive about the way she moved, sliding the terrycloth off her shoulders to the floor to reveal the black lace and satin, but James was reminded again of how very beautiful she was. "Hey," he said, making her look at him. "Come here."

Stepping over the robe, she walked to the side of the bed. He reached for her, tugging on the hem of her top and pulling her against his legs.

She linked her fingers around the back of his neck as she looked down at him. "I need to apologize," she said.

"For what?" James moved his legs apart and pulled her closer, so close he could rest his chin on her stomach.

"For pushing you tonight."

"Darling, you don't ever need to say you're sorry for wanting to kiss me," James said.

Natalia smiled softly. "You know what I mean. Today was a long day and it reminded me how much you mean to me."

"Because I knocked out some goons?"

"Because you protected my friends." Natalia reached one hand around to brush her fingers over his temple. "Because you saw things that no one else did, and you did what you had to do to neutralize the threat."

"In spite of me being some kind of cripple."

Natalia shook her head. "Today, you did exactly what you would have done before. That hasn't changed."

James lowered his head, pressing his cheek against Natalia's belly. "But that ain't true," he said after a minute. "Before, I didn't know who I was.

"And now you do?" Natalia pushed at his shoulders until he moved to lay back on the bed. She slid in beside him, curling up at his side. One of her hands rested on his stomach, her fingers moving in patterns over his skin. "I know the man I knew before, and I see him in you, James. I might not know everything about you, but I want to."

"But I'm not the man you knew," he pressed, putting his good arm around Natalia's shoulders. "Some days when I wake up, I don't know who I am anymore."

"I'd like to know you, then." Natalia rested her head against his right shoulder. "Please, let me."

James kissed the top of her head, holding her close. She put her arm around him, returning the embrace.

Her body pressed along his, her leg sliding over his. Her breasts pressed up against his chest, and all that separated them were her small wisps of black satin, and his boxers.

He wanted to be with her, wanted to be inside her, but his own broken body wouldn't let him. That didn't stop him from wanting to touch her, to taste her. He just didn't know what to _do_ about it.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, revelling in the press of her breasts against his chest as she breathed.

True to her word, she hadn't seemed repulsed by his body. In fact, when he thought back, there hadn't been any time since he'd come to New York that she had expressed disgust or revulsion at his appearance.

Maybe she really meant what she said, about still wanting him.

While James was thinking, Natalia stirred and sat up, reaching for the blankets. Something about the way the hair hung over her shoulder, the curve of her breast against the black lace, made James push himself up.

"Are you cold?" Natalia asked, moving the blankets to cover their legs. James shook his head.

"How tired are you?" he asked.

Natalia stopped arranging the blankets. "How tired are you?"

James touched one of the thin black straps on her shoulder. "I thought, maybe, if you weren't too tired, I could show my appreciation for everything you've done for me."

As seduction lines went, it was rather weak, but Natalia's lips curled up in a small smile. "And just how were you thinking of showing this appreciation?"

"Well," James said, gently pushing the strap over her shoulder. "I might not be able to do some stuff, but I have it on good authority that certain parts of me still work okay."

Natalia leaned into his touch. "What parts?" she asked, and from the smile on her face James knew she was probably laughing at his lame attempts at seduction. He didn't care; he knew that smile of hers well.

James eased the lace of her top down over the swell of her breast, showing the creamy pale skin, the rose-petal pink of her nipple. "My hand still works," he said, cupping the weight of her breast with his palm. Her nipple hardened against his skin, and he squeezed gently.

Natalia sighed, tilting her head to the side. "I would agree," she said. "Anything else?"

The line of her neck was too tempting to pass up; James leaned forward and kissed her throat. Natalia arched her back and let out another sigh as James touched his tongue against her skin.

"How about a mouth," James said, kissing down her throat to her collarbone. "And a tongue?"

"You are such a sweet talker," Natalia said in his ear, and then without warning she rolled him into his back, straddling his hips.

He stared up at her, one bare breast framed by the black lace, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat. "I'd sweet-talk you any day of the week," he managed.

Natalia's eyebrow arched, and she leaned back to pull her top up over her head, then she was leaning down to kiss him.

He wrapped his arm over her shoulders to hold her to him, her lips warm and welcome against his. She pressed herself against him as the kiss grew sloppy, lips and tongue and breathing hard. James moved his hand down her back to her hip and the thin lace of her panties.

Natalia pulled back with a gasp. "What do you want?" she asked, breathing heavily.

James cupped her behind. "It's late."

"Yes, it is."

James lifted his head to kiss one of her breasts, taking the nipple into his mouth and sucking in sharply. Natalia let out a soft cry as she pressed against him.

James slid his hand around her thigh, under the panties, and made a noise deep in his throat at how wet Natalia was. He kept going, his mouth on her breast and his fingers sliding the length of her, slick over her clit. Natalia's cry turned to a moan as he rubbed her clit, and her knees tightened against his hips.

James let his head fall back to the bed, looking up at Natalia. Her eyes were closed as she rocked against his hand, and this was nearly perfect. But he wanted more.

When he pulled his hand away, Natalia opened her eyes. Her cheeks were starting to flush, her eyes dark. She sat back on his hips and reached for his hand with both of hers. When she brought his fingers to her lips, James forgot what he had been planning; when she sucked his fingers into her mouth, tasting herself on his skin, he nearly forgot his own name.

"Do you know what you want?" Natalia asked, resting her cheek against his palm. "Because I know what I want."

James had to swallow twice before he could ask, "And what's that?"

In response, Natalia slid off James and lay on her back beside him. As he propped himself up on his elbow, Natalia shimmied out of her panties and kicked them across the room. She lay there, her knees up and slightly apart, her hands cupping her breasts. She bit her lower lip for a moment. "Do you really need me to tell you?" she asked, moving her knees apart.

Never let it be said that James Barnes couldn't take a hint. He got to his knees, shimmied around until he was kneeling between Natalia's legs. Bracing himself on his elbow, he leaned down to kiss her on the mouth, her tongue warm against his. Then he moved lower, flicking his tongue over the soft skin of her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, until he was centered between her legs.

He pushed one leg down, his hand on her thigh to keep her steady. He glanced up, and saw her propped up on her elbows, staring at him. He smiled at her, then lowered his head.

As he flicked his tongue over her clit, he heard her moan his name, and a shiver ran down his back. She was wet and ready and she wanted this, wanted _him_ to make her feel this way. Resolutely, he shifted lower, his tongue working, his hand sliding around to touch her where his tongue could not.

Going down on Natalia with only one arm to support himself was a bit awkward, and he had to shift around a few times to keep his back from cramping up, but after a few tries he got the hang of breathing on the upstroke, his tongue drawing soft moans from Natalia as she moved closer to climax.

He knew she was close when her breathing changed, when she grabbed at his hair, just missing the sore spot on his head from the day's pistol-whipping. Her moan changed to a breathless cry, and as he sped up for the final rally, her thighs tightened around his head and she breathed out, "Oh James, _yes_."

Then she arched her back and let out a long cry, her hand gripping James' hair tight. James rode her down from the climax, moving his tongue slowly, gently, until she pushed at him to stop, and he shifted to rest his head on her thigh.

Natalia lay still, breathing hard, and James felt a rush of pride and gratitude. In spite of his headache and aching muscles, to which he could now add an aching jaw to the day's tally, he had been able to give Natalia what she wanted. He might only have one arm, and a dick that was taking no interest in the beautiful naked woman lying spread out before him, but it wasn't forever. One day (and soon, he hoped), he would be able to make love to Natalia the way he had in the past.

Reluctantly, James sat up. He wiped his mouth with his hand, then reached for the blankets to cover them as they slept. Natalia was watching him with hooded eyes as he lay beside her.

"Sweet talker, indeed," Natalia mumbled as James slid against her, pulling the blankets over them. She cuddled against him, her eyes closing. "It's always the quiet ones who have wicked tongues."

"Any time you want a repeat of that, you let me know. Day or night."

Natalia made a sound in her throat. Her body was already heavy with sleep as she lay beside him.

James stared up at the ceiling, exhausted and aching, but somewhat satisfied. Natalia hadn't been repulsed by his body, instead welcoming him, broken as he was, into her bed. He might not be able to get himself ready for her in the usual way, but he was going to do anything and everything she wanted in the meantime. He would do anything to satisfy her, to keep her happy, to keep her wanting him.

He pushed away the tiny doubts in his head, that Natalia was just saying these things. Natalia wouldn't do that to him, not after all they had been through.

He closed his eyes and listened to Natalia's even breathing. He could sleep, he told himself. Jarvis was on watch, the doors were locked, and the woman at his side was a soldier, just like he was. They were as safe as they could be, while they slept.

James' last thought, before he drifted off to sleep, was that all Natalia ever wanted to be, ever since she was a little girl, was a soldier.

But he didn't know how he knew that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While yes, Captain America: The Winter Soldier is now out ~~and it's all that we could have hoped for~~ but this story is going to remain in the track I was writing before (so no spoilers for the movie). We'll be referencing some hints of comic stuff, but mostly it's just a giant mashed-up crossover freight train thing (after all this series now has 310,629 words you can't just turn that on a dime).
> 
> (The beginning of this chapter tracks with part of [chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1004733/chapters/2017804) of [Baba Yaga's Children](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1004733/chapters/1990879))
> 
> This chapter contains material that may be a sensitive subject to some readers – primarily, references to past remembered violence against a child; a character refers to a stillborn child.

* * *

He was standing in a river.

The water moved slowly in the shallows as he bathed, careful of his metal arm. But it had been so long since he had felt truly clean that he didn't care if the water was freezing.

He moved deeper into the river, the water rising up to his hips. He washed his skin with the small bar of military-issue soap he had packed with him (he hadn't been sure if he should bring such a frivolous thing with him, but in the two days since he'd left the drop-point, he'd remembered that was easier to sneak up on a target for an assassination if one didn't stink like a farm worker (why did he remember that?) so he carried the soap with him).

Taking a deep breath, he ducked under the water to give his hair a good scrub. He stood, pushing the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. The cold water was waking him up good and proper, after his long night of surveillance in the village.

He ran the soap over his face and hair, then tossed the bar onto the dry rocks and ducked back under the water. He stayed down longer this time, to scrub the soap out of his hair.

All he could hear was the water rushing in his ears, his heart beating loud in his chest.

There was a sound then in the water, something close and far away. He pushed the air out of his lungs as he stood up, looking around for the threat.

The child stood on the river bank, a small girl with tangled red hair and berry stains on her dress. She held a long knife in her hand.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, wiping the water out of his eyes.

"The rusalka is coming for you," she said, then put her thumb in her mouth

He was about to tell her that there was no such thing as a rusalka, that ghost women didn't live in the river to lure men to their death, when something grabbed his leg and pulled him underwater.

He fought as he was dragged deeper into the river. His hands clawed at the slippery riverbed but he couldn't gain any traction. His lungs burned as he tried again to fight his way to the surface, but something was below him in the water now, something dark and slippery and deadly.

Sharp claws ripped into his stomach and he screamed, water filling his mouth as the dark shape took form, a woman with dark hair and white skin and sharp teeth and she pulled him towards her and sank her teeth into his throat and--

He opened his eyes to darkness.

The adrenaline of the nightmare pulled him upright; the motion screaming through his bruises and abused muscles. James couldn't hold in the sharp groan of pain as he fell back onto the bed, his head throbbing.

"Soldier, what is wrong?" Natalia asked, her voice thick with sleep. Her Russian words pulled James back into that river, to the little girl with the long knife; the little girl whose neck he had broken.

He couldn't speak; nightmare and dark memories pushing down on him, holding him under with pain.

The mattress shifted and the light turned on. "James?"

"I am good," James lied. His hand fisted in the sheets as he tried to hold in the pain. "Go back to sleep."

"You idiot," Natalia said as she touched his forehead. "How is your head?"

His skull throbbed, centering in a bright spot of pain where he'd been struck with the pistol the day before. "Leave me alone," he muttered, trying to push her away. The movement sent pain screaming along his back, and he closed his eyes involuntarily.

"Is this from yesterday or is this new?" Natalia asked, her voice quiet in his ears.

James pressed his hand over his eyes. "Yesterday," he said, when the urge to scream had passed.

The mattress moved again as Natalia slipped away. James kept his eyes closed, but he could hear the door to the bathroom open, the sound of the faucet turning on.

James tried to breathe around the pain in his head, in his back, in his muscles. But that was something real he could focus on, not the monster from his nightmare.

The bed shifted. "Take these," Natalia said.

James pulled his hand away to look at her. She knelt on the bed, completely naked, her hair mussed from sleep. She was holding out a glass of water in one hand and pills in the other.

James gritted his teeth and rolled to his side, muscles protesting all the while. He pushed himself up to a sitting position. Once his head stopped pounding, he reached for the pills.

"What are they?" he asked, looking at them in his palm.

"Acetaminophen and ibuprofen," Natalia said, pointing each one out in turn. "I didn't think you'd want a muscle relaxant, this close to morning."

James blinked at her. "You threw away all the food in case the bad guys got in here, but not the drugs?"

Natalia smiled, small and private and just for him. "I got these from the lab's first aid kit last night," she said. "Pepper was in the lab the entire time and they never went near the kit, so I figure these were safe."

That seemed logical to James' nightmare-addled brain. He popped the pills into his mouth and took the glass of water from Natalia to wash them down.

When he was done, Natalia put the glass on the bedside table before moving the pillows back into place at the head of the bed. Her hands were cool on his skin when she touched him, urging him to lie down once more. James let her move him around, saying nothing when she pulled the blankets up over his body.

"Do you want the light on or off?" Natalia asked as she slid next to him under the blankets, warm against his right side.

"On," James said. He couldn't go back into that darkness, not with the monsters there waiting for him.

Natalia pulled the sheet to cover her shoulders, then slipped her arm across his chest. He put his arm around her shoulders to keep her there with him.

James closed his eyes, but the memory of the rusalka's claws and teeth made him open them again. He could taste the cold river water in his mouth, filling his lungs as he drowned.

"Why did you wake?" Natalia asked quietly, her head resting on his shoulder.

Now, with the sudden shock of the pain behind him, there was nothing to stop James from focusing on his nightmare and the splinters of memory underlying the dreams. He let out his breath, the taste of death on his tongue. "I've been having the same nightmare for a while," he said. "A nightmare or memory, I don't know which."

"Which do you think?"

James pressed his cheek against the top of Natalia's head. "I think it's real," he said after a minute. "Was real."

"How bad is it?"

James stroked his thumb over Natalia's shoulder. If he could lie to her, he would have done so at that moment. But she knew him too well, just as he knew her. "There's a little girl," James said, the words raw in his mouth. "And I killed her."

Natalia didn't recoil; didn't pull away from him in horror. She only moved her hand to rest over his heart. "Why?"

"Orders." James stared up at the ceiling, remembering the little girl's trusting expression in the woods as they gathered berries; as she stood on the riverbank holding his long knife; her sleeping on the grass as he covered her with his jacket so she wouldn't get cold. "My orders were to not let myself be seen, and to kill anyone who did."

"The girl saw you." It was not a question.

James nodded. "I don't remember how it happened. All I remember is that she trusted me, and I broke her neck."

Even saying the words brought back the memory of that cold night, sitting on the rock with the girl on his lap, the sickening snap of the breaking bones vibrating up his arm. James nearly gagged on his own breath and rolled quickly to the side, in case he needed to run to the bathroom. But he breathed through the memory and his stomach slowly settled back into its general unease. He pressed his hand against his face and wondered, not for the first time, how John Sheppard could have read his file and not put a bullet in James' head himself.

"What about her parents?" Natalia asked, sitting up but not touching him.

"She didn't have parents," James said, and he didn't know how he knew that. It made some sort of sick sense, though. What parent would let their child run wild in the woods with the monsters? "She was alone."

Natalia edged closer to him, touched his shoulder. "Do you want to try to sleep again?" she asked.

"How can you just say things like that?" James demanded. "I tell you that I murdered a child—"

"You had orders," Natalia said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I have also had orders. I know what it means."

He wanted to rage at her, demand how she could be so understanding about something so horrible, so monstrous, but he was just so _tired_ and everything hurt. He let Natalia gently guide him back to the mattress and pull the blankets over them once again. This time, Natalia lay on her side beside him, their bodies just touching, her hand resting lightly on his stomach.

James looked up at the ceiling, listening to the soft sound of Natalia breathing until his eyes began to close.

It wasn't fair. The little girl had never stood a chance out there. She had been all alone in the woods with a monster, and he didn't mean the rusalka.

* * *

Maybe it was the troubled night or the activities from the day before, but James slept late the next morning. He woke to sun in his eyes and blinked for a few moments, trying to gather his wits about him.

"You're awake."

James propped himself up on his elbow to see Natalia, wrapped in her robe, leaning against the window. She had drawn the curtain back and even from here James could see the city stretching out from the building, in the ceiling-to-floor glass.

He swallowed down the sudden panic at being so high. Natalia must have seen his reaction, for as James was still sitting up, she pulled the curtains closed.

"You don't have to do that," he said, even as the fear fluttering in his head quieted.

Natalia just smiled at him as she walked across the room. She sat on the bed, practically in his lap, and settled in against him to kiss him on the cheek.

Well. After the previous night, he wasn't going to be satisfied with just a kiss on the cheek.

James turned, kissing Natalia's cheek, the line of her jaw, all the way down her neck. She let out a small sigh as she relaxed into his embrace. It took a bit of shuffling, but eventually James had turned them around so Natalia was lying beneath him. His hand drifted lower, to the fabric belt holding the robe closed. When Natalia turned to give him easier access, he pulled the belt free and pushed the robe off Natalia's shoulders in one swift movement. She was naked underneath the robe.

"What are you thinking?" Natalia whispered in his ear as he kissed her breast.

He didn't answer her at first; rather enjoying the gentle sounds of her breathing as he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. When he grazed his teeth over the soft skin on her breast, Natalia's fingers dug sharply into his skin.

"Last night," he said, kissing his way over to her other breast, "I remember saying that my mouth wasn't the only thing that was working right."

Natalia tangled one hand in his hair, pulling him up until he was facing her. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes dark. "If you want to fuck me with those fingers of yours, soldier," she said, and the low growl in her voice made James' toes curl. "All you have to do is ask."

James' breath caught as Natalia pulled his head down to kiss him; his hand sliding down her body and between her legs, and if his own body wasn't echoing Natalia's arousal, he was certainly well able to match her enthusiasm.

It was rather late in the morning by the time they left Natalia's apartment. They'd showered and dressed, with the addition of a few weapons for James' ease of mind. After Natalia put a load of clothing into the washing machine, she led him by the hand into the elevator and kissed him breathless in the few seconds it took for them to get to the penthouse kitchen level. She broke the kiss as the elevator doors opened and headed out into the room; James took a moment to catch his breath before following her.

Pepper stood by the kitchen counter, frowning down at a notepad. The coffee machine was bubbling merrily, giving the room a delicious smell. Natalia greeted Pepper with a smile as she went to the fridge. "How's Jarvis?"

"Tony's still working on him," Pepper said. She tapped at her notepad absently. "They're trying to figure out how the virus got through Jarvis's security net in the first place.

Natalia pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge. "And how are you?"

Pepper turned her head to look at Natalia, the motion stretching her neck in a pale lean line. James wondered if she had looked this fragile before Extremis. "This morning? Angry."

"Good." Natalia touched Pepper's arm. "Did you get any sleep?"

At the touch, the tension in Pepper's body folded away. "A few hours in the lab," she said. "Tony worked all night."

Natalia raised her eyebrow. "Excellent," she said dryly. "Tony Stark, angry and sleep-deprived."

Pepper shook her head as James sat at the table. "What are you going to do?"

"I need to go shopping." Natalia set about cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. "Running low on groceries."

She didn't look at James when she spoke, and he was careful to keep his face pleasantly blank for Pepper. No one else needed to know what they did when someone violated their personal spaces.

Pepper hardly seemed to notice. "Good," she said absently, frowning at the pages in her notepad.

James and Natalia exchanged a glance, then James stood and pulled three mugs out of the cupboard. He had the cups filled and distributed by the time Natalia poured eggs into a frying pan; by the time the eggs were cooked, he'd set plates and utensils on the table.

Pepper looked up in surprise when Natalia put a liberal helping of eggs on the plate in front of her. "I already ate," she said.

"You can eat again," Natalia said with no room for argument. "It's going to be a long day."

James set about shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth, keeping one eye on Pepper and Natalia as they talked. Pepper appeared to have recovered from the attack the previous day, but James knew exactly how easy it was for people to wear masks to cover their true reactions.

He finished eating before the two women, and carried his empty plate and mug to the sink. He loaded them into the dishwasher without too much fumbling; it was far easier than if he'd had to wash them one-handed.

"Hey," he said, interrupting their conversation. "I'm going to see how Steve's making out."

"Let me know if he needs anything," Natalia said. Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes warmed James through.

He couldn't wait for her to get back.

In the elevator down to Steve's floor, James rested his shoulder against the wall. He'd forgotten what it was like to be with Natalia between missions, alone together, if only for a little while. He had missed that.

Some fragment of the previous night's conversation needled its way into his consciousness; Natalia's question if knowing that Isis had pushed them together to control Natalia meant anything to him. At the time, he had said no, but had he even really thought about it?

He had wondered, over the years he was out of stasis, about why the decision-makers in Department X had chosen him to train Natalia. Yes, he was a skilled fighter and assassin and he could read crowds, understand human behaviour when it came to the mission, but Natalia had always been in a class all her own. Her type of espionage was subtle and quiet, making her far more deadly than the Winter Soldier. So while he had taught her to fight, there were things he wouldn't have been able to teach her and they both knew it.

And then, one day when she was still a young woman, they had sent her to his room with orders for them to sleep together.

At the time, it hadn't made much sense; as far as James had been able to figure out, it was either a reward for him or an object lesson for Natalia. He was pretty sure she'd been a virgin, but she hadn't made any indication she had any hesitation about following through on the orders.

And they both obeyed orders.

James frowned at the memory, mostly snippets of words and images. It had been years before for him; had been decades for Natalia. He wondered how old she had been, that first time they were together.

"Sgt. Barnes."

James jerked his head up with a start. "Jarvis, you okay?" he asked, shaking away the ghosts of the past.

"I am." Jarvis sounded his normal self. "However, the elevator doors opened on Captain Rogers' floor thirteen seconds ago and when you made no attempt to disembark, I wondered if you were well."

James rubbed his eyes. "Just thinking about things, that's all."

"I see," Jarvis said. "Do you wish me to take you to a different floor?"

"Nah, I'll go see what trouble Steve's getting into now." James stood straight, wincing at the muscle pain in his back and torso, and strode out of the elevator.

Steve answered James' knock after a short delay. He looked frazzled. "Buck—James, thanks for coming," he said, catching himself quickly.

"Don't look like that," James said, waiting for Steve to step aside before walking into the apartment. "I ain't going to go after you for calling me that accidentally."

Steve gave James a small smile. "Good, 'cause I'm not trying to mess with you."

James turned into the room, so very different than Natalia's apartment. The curtains on all the windows were pulled back, showing the city. The kitchen was not walled off, as it was in Natalia's apartment; everything was out in the open, all white walls and clean orderly lines.

It didn't feel like _Steve_ at all.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Steve was asking.

"Some," James replied, remembering what he and Natalia had gotten up to before they fell asleep. "You?"

"Same." Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "That's the thing about Bruce, he can sleep anywhere when he needs to. I stayed up longer. You know. Thinking."

James walked the length of the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The room didn't have much in it to disarrange; a few low bookcases had been swept clear and a few of the couch cushions were messed up, but that was all James could see on first glance.

"How's Natasha holding up?"

"She's just fine," James said absently, looking around. "Nothing can keep that woman down for long."

Something was scratching at the edge of his consciousness, something wrong, some sight, some sound, some _thing_. James let out a breath and concentrated on the room around him. Something tiny, something out of place, but familiar all the same.

What was it?

Steve was staring at James, that intense stare that told James that Steve had caught on that something was wrong. "So," Steve said, his voice too controlled to be natural. "You want coffee?"

"Yeah, coffee would be great." James followed Steve to the kitchen area. "Say, you got some paper I could use? Natasha said she was going to go shopping tomorrow, if I wanted anything."

Steve hesitated as he removed the coffee percolator from the stove. "My sketchpad on the table has some blank pages. Take what you need."

James moved to the table, where a stack of sketchpads lay beside a half-dozen pencils of various length. He flipped open the top sketchpad, riffling for a clear page. He moved past most of the drawings absently; a few of a vaguely familiar soldier, a woman with dark eyes whom James disliked on sight, a couple of skylines. James' fingers slowed when he came to a page with an incredibly detailed drawing of Natalia on it. She sat slumped in a chair, bruised and beaten, and seemed to be staring directly out of the page at him.

A stab of anger and irrational jealousy ran through James. What right did Steve have to be drawing Natalia _(his_ Natalia _)_ like this? This wasn't some quick sketch; Steve had to have spent hours on it.

James bundled up his irritation and shoved it to the back of his head; he would unpack that later. In the meantime, he had work to do.

He finally found a clear page in the sketchbook. Sitting down, he picked up a pencil and wrote in small letters, _can jarvis turn off the power to the floor?_

Steve finished measuring coffee grounds into the percolator and wandered over to the table. He glanced at the words, and nodded.

 _get someone to bring something to sense additional power sources,_ James scribbled. _cameras and stuff._

Steve didn't say anything, only put the percolator back on the counter and took out his phone. As he typed, he said, "Do you want lunch or anything?"

"Natasha made breakfast," James said, closing the sketchpad. He eyed the stack of sketchpads, wondering how many of their pages held detailed drawings of Natalia. "But if you want to eat, eat."

"Maybe I will." Steve set his phone on the counter. "Bruce said he's going to bring something up."

James slid down in the chair, resting his elbow on the table. "You and Banner hang out a lot?" he asked.

"Sometimes." Steve crossed his arms over his chest, an echo of something he used to do as a kid. Only now, with those biceps, it was more aggressive than Steve probably intended. "He's a good guy to watch movies with. Sometimes he gets when a little context is needed."

"Yeah, a little context can go a long way," James said, still smarting about the drawings of Natalia, but before Steve could respond the apartment door opened and Bruce came in, holding a small black box.

Steve picked up his phone and said, "When you're ready," into it, and the electricity in the room suddenly went out.

James was up off his seat in a flash. "Monitor for any power source, no matter how small," he said to Bruce. "But this will probably be transmitting, so it'll have some life to it."

Bruce stared down at the box, moving in a tight circle. "There," he said after a minute, pointing at the bookcase. "And by the TV."

James took three long steps over to the bookcase. They wouldn't risk putting something in a book, where it might fall loose if Steve were to take the book off the shelf. Likewise, the thing would need to be small, nearly undetectable, for a Super Soldier to not see it.

But James had nearly a decade more experience in this sort of thing than Steve, and he knew where to look for the imperfections. The monitoring device was nearly invisible; a single fibre optic strand taped to the underside of the bookcase frame, pointed out into the room. The body of the device was hidden where shelf met frame, a small cylinder the size of a hairpin tucked away out of sight.

James had never seen a device of this exact design, but if it was able to transmit out, then it might also be able to receive commands. "Tell Jarvis to jam any incoming transmissions," he said, moving away from the bookcase. "Steve, better stand back just in case."

Steve, who had been about to touch something behind the television, moved back with alacrity. "In case of what?" he demanded, as Bruce was speaking into his phone.

James braced himself for some reaction, because that was the sort of shit luck he was having, but then Bruce visibly relaxed. "The building's shielded," he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Jarvis is going to block all transmissions inside the building too, just in case our friends from yesterday left something else behind."

"What about Jarvis, is he okay?" James asked.

"I am," came Jarvis's voice from the ceiling. "In most parts of the building, my monitoring and response systems are hard-wired."

"Good." James reached around to pull the switchblade out of his back pocket. He flicked it open and went back to the bookcase. It only took a moment to pry the device free. He used the blade's edge to move the small cylinder around.

"Have you ever seen something like this before?" Steve asked, leaning down to take a closer look.

"Not exactly, but I know the general principle." James sat back on his heels. "When you don't have a lot of time, you put in monitoring devices in case you can get something usable on a target."

"Why me?" Steve asked.

"It might not have been just you," James said. He closed the knife as he got to his feet. "Jarvis said they got into Banner's place too, right?"

Bruce shook his head. "What the hell is going on?" he muttered.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were gathered in Tony's lab while Tony and Bruce ran diagnostics on the two devices they'd found in Steve's place, as well as the three from Bruce's apartment.

"They must have run out of time to plant more," James said from his place on the sidelines.

"How so?" Steve asked, leaning against one of the large storage crates.

"You want to run surveillance that's going to pick up anything useful, you need to use more than five interfaces."

Steve shook his head. "They can't have thought they'd have all kinds of time when they were planning this," he argued.

"So why'd they go after you and Banner?" James shot back. "Why not focus on Stark, or just send more men after Potts?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Pepper called across the room where she had taken over one of the workbenches with her files.

"Sorry, ma'am," James called. He smiled at Tony when the man glared at him. "You got any ideas?"

"Perhaps it would be more worthwhile examining the intersections between Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner," Jarvis helpfully put in.

Tony leaned back on his work-stool. "Excellent taste in jazz?" he offered. "An obsession with Indian food?"

"Tony." Bruce took off his glasses. He looked tired.

"They both play a mean game of Frisbee?"

Steve turned his back on Tony. "What Tony's very carefully not saying is that both Bruce and I have encountered a version of the Super-Soldier Serum," he said to James.

James knew this, of course, but he could at least manage to fake a low-level of surprise for Steve. "That's interesting," he said as he pushed his hair back from his face. He found himself wishing, not for the first time that day, that his hair wasn't always getting in the way. One of these days, he might just take scissors to his own head. "So they were after Extremis as well as the Serum?"

Tony flipped a small wrench over in his hand. "Which do you think would be worse, infecting someone with Extremis before or after they had the Serum?"

"Six of one, half-dozen the other," Bruce muttered. "It would be a true disaster, start to finish."

"We don't know that's what they were going to do," Steve objected.

"Don't we?" Pepper had abandoned her work station and was walking toward them. She leaned against one of the robots, patting its head absently as it beeped at her. "Does it matter? If they'd taken me and were monitoring you—"

"Pep," Tony interrupted as he wheeled his stool over to her. "Didn't happen."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Could have happened," she said quietly.

Tony put his hands on her hips and pulled her closer to him, looking up at her with such intensity that James wondered if he remembered they had an audience. "Never going to happen."

"Do you think that whoever went after Pepper has tried to recreate the Serum?" Steve asked, interrupting Pepper and Tony's little moment.

James shrugged. "It's a hell of a leap to make on such little intel, but it can't be ruled out."

"But the effects of the Serum and Extremis mirror each other in some ways," Steve went on. "Healing, stamina, strength…"

"Can you regrow missing body parts?" James asked pointedly. Steve couldn't stop his gaze from dipping to James' left shoulder before he looked away. "Point is, we know they were after Ms. Potts," James went on. "And they planted monitoring devices in your place, same with Dr. Banner. We'll see what Sheppard's men can get out of the mercs they have in custody."

"Should we tell him about the listening devices?" Pepper asked.

"We can do a better job in figuring these things out than the military," Tony said decisively, rolling back to the workbench. "The tech is top-of-the-line, but I should be able to track it down in, oh, thirty minutes."

"Let us know what we can do to help," Steve said, standing up a fraction straighter. "If we need to sweep other parts of the tower. If any more of these things were left behind, we should find them right away."

Bruce had leaned back in his chair, his glasses dangling from one hand, as he looked at James. "How did you know the device was in Steve's apartment?" he asked.

His voice was mild, but at his words James went instantly on guard. Keeping his body still as he turned his head toward Bruce, James said, "Something felt off about the room, that's all."

"Something that Steve didn't pick up on?"

"I wasn't in there for long," Steve protested. "It's not like I was looking for any kind of monitoring devices."

James hadn't broken eye contact with Bruce. "Sometimes I hear things, see things, and I can't explain how I know what I know," he said. "Maybe I knew once, I don't know now."

For his part, Bruce didn't look away either. "What other sorts of things?" he asked.

"Languages, computers, stuff like that," James hedged. Without Natalia there to guide him, he wasn't going to start spouting off about things that had any real meaning to him. "It's just there. In my head."

"That sounds horrible," Tony said from the sidelines.

"It sure ain't great," James bit out, starting to get annoyed. "You want to accuse me of anything else, or are we done here?"

"We're done," Steve said with finality. He clapped James on the back. "I'm going to go finish up in my place, unless you need any more help."

Tony looked from James to Steve, then back to James. "We'll let you know if we can track down the transmission location or anything else."

Steve nodded, but James was already heading to the elevator. He was inside and waiting when Steve joined him. The elevator door closed as Steve punched the touchpad to take them to his floor. James wanted to say something to Steve about his friends, about what James would have to do to prove to them that he wasn't out to get any of them, but the words rattled around in his head in Russian and he couldn't get the English together for Steve.

The elevator doors opened again, and Steve got off first. "You coming?" he asked. "I mean, you don't have to."

James pushed himself off the wall and walked into the foyer. "Not sure what help I'll be."

"It's just books and stuff," Steve said, opening the door for James.

Once inside the room, James looked around again, senses open, but the underlying anxiety from before was gone. "You got an order or you just throw stuff on shelves?" he asked.

"You're one to talk about throwing stuff on shelves," Steve retorted. "But nah, I just put things where I'll find them later."

James turned his back on the giant windows, hoping that if he just didn't look out at the city, the heights wouldn't make him so light-headed. "What's first?"

They started at the bookcase nearest the bathroom, setting the books upright on the shelves. Steve pushed books in seemingly at random, while James took a moment to glance at the titles. The books ran heavily to history and politics, not much fun. And certainly not like Steve's tastes before the War.

They didn't speak much, for which James was grateful. He was still smarting at Bruce's accusation, and he ached from the previous day's battle. He might have been in better shape than after Isis ripped his arm off, but that wasn't saying much.

They moved on to the next bookshelf. These books suited Steve more, James thought as he lifted a heavy art book onto the shelf. The next book in the pile made him look over at Steve.

"The Human Form?" James flipped the book open, the covers falling open to display a black and white photograph of a very attractive naked woman. "Ain't Stark shown you the wonders of Internet porn yet?"

Steve grabbed the book from James and set it on the shelf. "It's for reference," he said, the tips of his ears pink.

"Yeah, they got that kind of reference all over the web." James picked up another book, this one featuring sculptures in European museums. "Or maybe you got someone out there you could do a little life modeling with?"

Steve shook his head. "Yeah, that sure ain't gonna happen," he muttered.

"No one looking to be Captain America's sweetheart?"

The glare that Steve threw his way wasn't entirely friendly. "Yeah, there's a lot of people who'd like that." He picked up three heavy books at once and shoved them onto the shelf. "Not a lot who are into Steve Rogers, is all."

"There's got to be someone," James said. He pushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear as he shifted around to rest his back against the wall. "Someone you work with?"

"What, like you and Natasha?" Steve asked. He pulled his knees up to his chest, just like he used to do when they were kids and something was bothering him.

James let his hand fall to the floor, pressing it flat to ground him. "Like me and Natasha what?"

Steve was frowning, lines creased in his forehead. "She showed us that picture you left on her phone," Steve said. "From when she was a kid."

James let his tongue slide over his lower lip, trying to figure out where Steve was going with this. He knew the photo Steve was talking about; he'd taken the snapshot of Natalia decades before, only a few days after she had killed her first target. She had been thirteen, he thought, hair braided and in a crisp uniform and no expression on her face, but the Winter Soldier had known how upset she was. He'd taken the photo to distract her and help her compartmentalize the death; a few weeks before, he'd put the photo on her phone to remind her where she came from. What she was.

That was before Isis, before he'd been ruined, just… before.

"What's your point?" James asked.

"You having that photo, it doesn't seem right."

James had heard enough. "You want to call judgement on me and Natalia, do it when I'm not around," he said, getting to his feet and barely keeping his balance with his hand on the wall. "You don't know a thing that we been through, either of us, so fuck off."

"That isn't what I mean," Steve protested, bouncing to his feet in one smooth motion. In that moment, James hated him. "It's just… isn't it weird? You trained her when she was a kid."

"We were soldiers, Steve," James said, still seething. "I'd go into stasis and whenever I came out again she was older, stronger, better than when I'd gone in." He pushed his hair off his face (seriously, he was going to find some scissors and cut it all off) and went on. "And you know what's worse? I still don't remember some of the times I was out of stasis, I don't know what missions we were on, what I said to her, none of it."

"How do you know that?"

"She'll say things. Like we'll be talking and she'll say something that she obviously expects me to know about and I don't!" James turned on his heel, pacing to the wall furthest from the windows. "And it doesn't matter what it is, she'll just move past it like it's no big deal."

"Do you want her to make some big deal out of it?"

"No, of course not." James kicked at the wall, his shoe bouncing harmlessly off the white paint by the door. "I don't know. It's just… she's old now, nearly eighty. She just handles things like nothing surprises her and sometimes I'm not sure what to do with all that."

James closed his mouth, aware that he was talking too much. Returning memories or not, he still wasn't sure what to make of Steve sometimes. And besides, Natalia's secrets were not his to give away.

"Do you remember when you first met her?" Steve asked.

James turned back to face Steve. "Yeah," he muttered. "Look, is that offer for coffee still on?"

"Sure." After a moment's hesitation, Steve headed to the kitchen, James trailing after him. James slumped against the counter as Steve poured water into the coffee percolator and put it on the stove.

The actions sparked a faint memory in James' head. "Remember the crap coffee we used to get in the field sometimes?" he asked. To his relief, Steve nodded. "Who was it that used to complain the loudest?"

"Dernier," Steve said. "To be fair, it was pretty shit coffee." He smiled. "Hey, remember that time in Italy after we broke up that Hydra base near Venice?"

James looked down at his hand, focusing intently on the healing scratches on his index finger, the bruised knuckles. "Not really," he said, doing everything he could to keep his voice level. He had thought he would be able to deal with anything Steve threw at him, but the easy way in which Steve threw things around like he expected James to just know… it was worse than with Natalia, because Natalia _understood_.

"I thought you were remembering things," Steve said, suddenly hesitant.

"Yeah, well, not everything," James said. He put his hand on the countertop and made himself stand straight. "Hell, Steve, don't look like that. It's fine, all right?"

Steve's frown was a sight to behold, but he at least tried to mask his reaction by turning to the coffee percolator. "It's gotta be hard, not knowing stuff that happened to you."

"If I let it get to me, what the hell good would I be in the field?" James shook his head. "Can we not talk about this?"

Steve nodded at the coffee pot. An awkward silence fell over the room. James wondered if he should leave Steve to his sketchbooks and his empty apartment. But there was something about Steve's posture that made James want to do anything to things better with Steve; such a strange feeling that it made James uncomfortable.

"Do you know what's with people and coffee these days?" James asked, trying to find something to ease the tension in the room. "I get out of stasis and all of a sudden everyone's got a cup of overpriced coffee glued to their hands."

"I know what you mean," Steve said, turning around with a forced smile. "People stopped smoking so much now, maybe this is what they do instead."

"Maybe." James went to the cupboards and opened them one by one until he found the mugs. "At least the tea's better than it was in the orphanage."

"Most things are." Steve pulled a carton of cream out of the fridge. "You tried Indian food yet?"

"Some, while I was in England." James planted his hand on the counter and hopped up, shimmying back so he was seated comfortably. "What else have you tried recently?"

Steve told James about his forays into the culinary offerings of modern New York, how he was really into various forms of Chinese and Thai food, not so much on the raw stuff in Japanese. As Steve was relating an anecdote of him, Natasha and Clint Barton at a Spanish tapas restaurant in Manhattan, the coffee percolator finished its brew, and Steve poured out two cups.

James took his black, not normally his favourite, but it was easier to taste the coffee itself without sugar. They sipped for a few moments in silence, then James set his cup down.

"You asked when I first met Natasha." At Steve's nod, James pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck to show the old scar. "There's this little kid, all gangly limbs and eyes half the size of her face, and she pulls this handgun out of nowhere and tries to shoot me in the face."

Steve paused with his coffee mug halfway to his face. He was staring at the scar. "She told me about that," he said after a minute.

"She did?" James asked, surprised and a little dismayed. "When?"

"When you were still pretending that you didn't know who Bucky Barnes was," Steve said, setting his cup on the counter. "She was trying to convince me that you couldn't be Buck—couldn't be you. Maybe she thought telling me some story about you trying to kill her would do it."

"Hey, I never made a move against her!" James exclaimed.

"But she was scared enough to try to shoot you," Steve interjected.

"Which was the right fucking decision!"

"What if she'd hit you in the head? Or the chest?"

"Then we wouldn't be having this stupid conversation." James slid off the counter. Coming here with Steve, thinking they could interact like normal people, had been a mistake. "Are we going to do this every time? I talk about what I been through and you pull the righteous indignation card on me?"

"I'm not doing that!"

"Sure as hell sounds like it to me!" James dug his fingers into the fabric of his jeans; he would not make a fist, would not make this into a fight he could not win. "You think I had a choice? That I wanted them to give me a metal arm, or rip my memories away and shove lies into my head, huh?"

"Of course not!"

"I didn't have a choice in what I did with Natalia; all I could do was try to teach her enough so she could survive!" James slapped his palm flat against the counter, the sting of the impact helping him to focus. "She was such a damned smart kid, all she needed was help and someone treating her like a person, not a weapon."

"I get it," Steve said, visibly reigning himself in. He'd never had to do that when they were kids; he was small enough that getting worked up wasn't going to set off a chain reaction. But now, big as he was, part of James' mind couldn't see beyond the physical threat to see his friend. "And I'm not judging."

"The fuck you aren't."

"It's… It's a lot to take in. What you've been through."

"Join the fucking club." James shifted to rest his hip against the counter's edge. "You want the real skinny, you talk to Natalia, she'll set you straight on anything that happened."

"Maybe I will." Steve leaned against the counter opposite James. For a moment, neither of them spoke. "Was it ever weird? You know, later. After you and she got together."

James shrugged. There were a lot of things he wasn't going to tell Steve, and most of them had to do with his physical relationship with Natalia. "She grew up, it happened. Sometimes, someone who isn't trying to kill you is as good as a friend."

Steve frowned at him. "I'm pretty sure Natasha sees you as a lot more than a friend."

"Yeah," James muttered. "For all the good it did her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," James said, turning on Steve, "If I hadn't come looking for Natalia last month, if she hadn't thought she had to help me, then Isis would never have gotten so close to her."

"And Isis would have found another way to get to her and none of us would have known enough to save her," Steve objected. "Are you sure you want to play this game? Because I can keep going all night long."

"Shut up," James said.

"I don't know if this is about the mission or about your past, but this? What you're doing? Sounds an awful like what you always did as a kid when you were afraid you were going to lose something important."

James stretched his arm out to the side. "Why would I be afraid of losing Natalia?" he asked sarcastically. "Because I look like this?"

"Natasha doesn't care about that—"

"Then maybe because she's found a life without me in it," James interrupted. "She never needed me, Steve. Not even when she was a kid. She sure as hell doesn't need a cripple like me now."

Steve shook his head. "Maybe she doesn't need you, I don't know what's in her head," he said stubbornly. "But from what I've seen in the last few days, she's damned invested in you sticking around."

James turned his back on Steve, going for his half-empty coffee cup. "I'm not sure what that's going to get her."

"Do you love her?"

James drank the rest of the luke-warm coffee in one swallow, then set the cup in the sink. "What the hell does that matter?"

"It fucking matters! If you love her, you should stick around, try to make it work!"

"Did I say I was going anywhere?" James demanded.

"No, but you're acting like one day you might just up stakes and ship out without telling anyone."

"Fuck you, Rogers," James said, suddenly sick of all this.

"No, fuck you."

"You're an asshole, anyone ever tell you that?"

"You, once a day and twice on Sundays." Steve tried to smile but it wasn't all that convincing. "Seriously. Are you planning on leaving any time soon?"

James rubbed his eyes. Spending all this time with Steve was more tiring that he'd expected, considering all they'd done was talk. "Where the hell am I going to go?"

"You could go to Stargate Command," Steve said. He met James' glare defiantly. "What, Colonel Sheppard seems like he has some kind of plan for you."

James shook his head. "There's something going down at Stargate Command," he said slowly. "I don't know what but there's something."

"Something bad?" Steve asked.

James shrugged. "Sheppard's too much like his mother for me to get a read on what he's really got up his sleeve. It's just, this whole aliens thing... it's a hell of a thing."

"Yeah, well, you haven't met Thor yet," Steve said. "You get used to it after a while."

He went back to the percolator to pour himself another cup of coffee. James used the moment to step over to the table and pull up a seat. He was reaching for the sketchpad before Steve returned.

"I see all that art school stuff really paid off," James said, flipping open the cover.

"It passes the time," Steve replied. He sat down, slumping back in his chair. "I mean, there's all these movies and shows and things now, but I can't sit still long enough to watch most of them. At least when I'm drawing no one minds if I'm kicking the table leg."

James idly flipped pages. Since he'd come out of stasis, he'd found that he was unable to sit still and pay attention to this century's idle entertainments for longer than five minutes. If it was for surveillance, that was one thing, but just sitting and letting himself be talked at… it wasn't his thing.

He moved through the pages until he got to that sketch of Natalia that had so bothered him. "But you can sit still long enough to draw Natasha like this?" he asked, shoving the sketchpad at Steve.

Steve clenched his jaw, but he didn't look away from James. "Natasha doesn't have a problem with me drawing pictures of her."

"Has she seen this one?" James demanded.

"Not yet," Steve shot back. "I had some down time in Chicago and wanted to get that one done before I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"What she looked like after they brought you out of surgery," Steve said heatedly, and that was enough of a sideswipe for James to sit back. "Once they brought you out to recovery, I don't think she knew I was looking at her. All she cared about was you."

James looked back at the drawing. He didn't understand how Steve had so perfectly captured Natalia's expression, how he'd managed to draw such an old woman's eyes in Natalia's young face. Carefully, he closed the sketchbook.

"You want more coffee?" Steve asked after a minute.

James shook his head. As he did so, strands of hair fell into his eyes, and he let out a growl. "No coffee, but you got a pair of scissors around here?"

"You're not going to cut your own hair," Steve said. "There's a barber on the second floor in the shops, he can do it. I think he's open until six."

Right. Like James was going to let a stranger near his head with something as sharp as scissors. "You ever try to wash hair this long one-handed?" he asked.

"You think you can cut your own hair one-handed?" Steve stood up, went to a drawer and retrieved a pair of scissors, long and shiny-new. "If you really want, I could do it."

James looked at Steve, then at the scissors. "You sure?"

"If you are." Steve grabbed a dishtowel off the counter. "I used to cut your hair all the time, after you lost your job at the rail yard and we were trying to scrape together the rent. Remember?"

James didn't remember working at any rail yard, but he did have the faintest of recollections of Steve cutting his hair; him sitting on one of their rickety kitchen chairs while Steve snipped his hair with dull scissors that pulled on every other cut. He nodded. "Let's do it."

Steve hauled a chair into the bathroom, sat James down and put the dishcloth around his neck. James stared at Steve in the mirror, moving around behind James' back, and for a long moment, James wasn't sure he could go through with this. It had been only days before that James was convinced that Steve had stabbed him and thrown him off a train; and before that, how many times had he wondered about Steve, had been unable to reconcile the memory of short, skinny Steve with the larger-than-life impression of Captain America.

James let out a breath. He wasn't about to let his shattered memories control him. Steve had been his friend, before everything, and Natalia trusted Steve. If James backed out now, it would be just the same as admitting that he was at the mercy of his broken memories.

And he couldn't let that happen. He needed to be better than that. He might not be the Winter Soldier any longer, but he was not controlled by his weaknesses.

"Go ahead," James said, his voice loud in the tiled bathroom. "Might as well get this over with."

Scissors on the counter, Steve stood behind James and reached for his head with a comb in one hand. "How short do you want it?"

"You know. Short on the sides, longer on top."

James tensed when Steve neared, but the man's touch was gentle. Deftly, Steve parted James' hair on the side, swept the long strands over his head, then slid his fingers up the side of James' head. "This long enough?" he asked.

"That's fine," James said shortly. He controlled his breathing as Steve first combed out the long strands, then traded comb for scissors and began to snip at the dark hair between his fingers.

The scissors cut through the hair easily. Steve was concentrating on his task, which gave James the space to breath around the icy ball of tension in his stomach. Steve wasn't hurting him, wasn't going to hurt him. Maybe they had their differences, decades of pain separating them, but even if they weren't the sort of friends they had once been, they had something connecting them.

They just needed to figure out what that was.

Steve quickly worked his way around James' head, snipping the hair short on the sides and adding those loose stands to the growing pile on the countertop. His touch was so light that the sore sport on James' skull hardly hurt at all.

"How long you want it on top?" Steve asked.

James considered this. It would be nice to make a complete break from the Winter Soldier's appearance, and it would be more fitting to his new role in the American military if his hair was regulation short.

He hesitated on the request, remembering part of the previous night with Natalia, how she had tangled her fingers in his hair when she was kissing him, and then after, when he was reminding her how skilled he could be with his tongue. "Maybe a little longer than yours," James said. He wasn't about to explain his reasons to Steve.

Steve deftly cut the hair on the top of James' head almost too long, dark strands falling forward to cover his eyebrows but not quite getting in his eyes. With a few final snips, Steve stepped back, looking at James' with a satisfied nod.

"That ain't half-bad," James said grudgingly. "If this whole Captain American thing doesn't work out for you, you can always open up a barber shop on the side."

Steve put the scissors down, and James felt himself relax for the first time since entering the bathroom. "I'm not sure that the guys these days would go in much for my kind of styles. I'll stick to saving the world."

There was something in his voice, something sharp underlying the words. Anyone else might have missed it, but James had grown up with Steve, had spent years hearing the wistful envy in his voice when his frailties kept him back from joining in.

There were the same lingering bitter notes now, and James didn't understand _why_.

He pushed the realization into a compartment in his mind, to deal with later. He brushed his hand over his head, taking in the new sensations of the shorter hair. "What do you think, will I be able to get away with this in the Air Force?"

Steve's mouth quirked up into a half-smile. "You'll fit right in with those flyboys," he said. "Besides, I'm not exactly sure that what's happening at Stargate Command is strictly Air Force."

"Anything that's not a buzz cut." James brushed some stay hairs off his shoulders. "Say, Steve, thanks for this."

"You're the one I should be thanking, with finding those cameras this morning." Steve stuck out his hand, which James took and shook.

"You'd've found them eventually," James said. "I guess I just knew what to look for." He released Steve's hand.

"Maybe. Maybe not in time."

James was saved from having to answer by an interruption from Jarvis. "Sgt. Barnes, Agent Romanoff would like you to know that she has returned from her shopping trip and is in her apartment."

"Thanks, Jarvis." James smiled ruefully at Steve. "I should go see if she needs help with anything."

"Sure." Steve stuck his hands in his pockets. "So, I'll see you around?"

"What around?" James said lightly. "We all live in Tony Stark's pocket, you think we won't run into each other ten times a day?"

Steve smiled at that, and James quickly took his exit.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator; three flights down was no big worry. He rubbed his hand over his head as he walked, the short hair a strange sensation after all this time. He couldn't remember when he'd last had short hair. Certainly before he'd gone into stasis that last time. Maybe 1998?

Well, it was high time he had a haircut, then. Bucky Barnes had been the kind of man who liked his hair short… at least, James thought he was. Maybe there was some benefit to trying to fit back into those old stereotypes.

Besides. A man with only one arm couldn't afford to stray too far outside societal norms without being labelled just a little too _different_.

James hopped down the last two steps to Natalia's floor and made his way quickly across the foyer. He let Jarvis scan his bio-print to let him into the apartment and he entered quietly. Sounds came from the kitchen area; Natalia unpacking her groceries. In spite of himself, James felt his heartbeat quicken in anticipation of seeing Natalia again.

Her back was to him when he stopped in the kitchen doorway. Groceries covered the table and the counter; Natalia must have bought enough to restock her entire pantry. "Bruce called to tell me you found monitoring devices in his and Steve's apartment," she called over her shoulder without turning around.

"Yeah, Stark's trying to figure where they were transmitting to." James leaned his left side against the doorway, hooking his thumb into his trouser pocket. "If anyone can figure it, I guess it'd be him."

Natalia bent over to put a tin can in one of the bottom cupboards and James took a moment to appreciate the view. "What do you think they could be looking for?" Natalia asked as she stood up, turning. "Visual surveillance can't really tell much if you—"

Her words broke off abruptly as she caught sight of James. For a moment, she just stared.

James felt his good mood slipping away. "You don't like it," he said flatly.

"I didn't say that." Natalia brushed her hands on her jeans and picked up another jar from the table.

"That look on your face isn't the sort of thing a guy wants to see after a haircut," James pointed out.

"I was surprised." Natalia put the jar by the microwave. "I didn't think you would go to a barber while I was away."

"I didn't. Steve did it."

Natalia stopped, turned around, and stared at him again. "You let Steve near your eyes with scissors?"

"Don't make a big deal out of it," James said. This wasn't going the way he'd wanted at all.

"Last week you were ready to start a fight with him because he was sparring with me."

"I thought he was someone else!" James exclaimed, starting to get annoyed. "You know my memories get mixed up some."

"Yesterday in the lab you freaked out on him because I was hurt in the battle."

"Because he should have had your back!" James shook his head. "You want any help with this stuff or are you just going to ride my case some more?"

Natalia picked up a large cabbage. "I don't need any help."

"Fine. Maybe I'll go check the laundry."

"Maybe Steve can help you," Natalia said under her breath, turning away. James glared at her for a moment before stalking out of the kitchen.

What was wrong with Natalia? It wasn't like she hadn't seen him with short hair before. And riding his ass about Steve, what the hell was that all about? She was the one who had been pushing him to give Steve a chance, almost since he staggered into Stark Tower in the first place. That woman was making no sense.

Jaw clenched, James walked across the apartment to the laundry machines. He piled the dry towels into the hamper, transferred the wet clothes to the dryer, turned it on, then propped the hamper against his hip for the short walk to the bedroom. Still irritated, he dropped the hamper on the bed. What did Natalia know about it, anyway? It wasn't like he told her how to cut her hair, or what to wear. Those sorts of things were her choice. Just like cutting his hair was his own choice.

Fuming, James upended the hamper on the bed, then sat next to the pile of towels. When was the last time he'd had any choice in his life? Not at any moment in Department X. Not even in the War, where he went and did what he was told. Even before that, in New York in the Depression, what sort of chance did a poor orphan have of living a life of his own? Life had been a rat-race of making enough money to keep body and soul together. All the choice he'd ever had in his life back then had been to get drunk on occasion, and which of his threadbare clothes to put on for pounding the pavement trying to find a job.

Sour anxiety rose in his chest as the memories came back in a painful rush. It hadn't always been like that. Just often enough that the helpless frustration was familiar.

James hit out at the towels, scattering them across the room. The frustration made him so _angry_ and he knew he couldn't let people see, not to Natalia, not anyone. So what did it matter if he was frustrated or angry? He could control himself better than this, he had to. He would not lose control.

James rubbed at his face, willing his heart to stop racing, his mind to tamp down on the emotions. It took a few minutes, but when his head was clearer, he let out a sigh, then stood to gather the towels from the floor.

Most lay by the door, which James kicked back onto the bed easily. One had fallen between the bed and the bedside table, and James bent down to retrieve that one on his way back across the room. As he did so, his fingers brushed something hidden beneath the bed.

Idly curious, James tossed the towel onto the bed before dropping to his knees to look under the bed. The object, tucked neatly against the wall, was a book. The leather-bound cover was blank.

Wondering why Natalia would hide a book like this, James lifted the book onto the bed, then opened the pages at random. What he saw made his stomach drop and his vision swim grey for a moment.

There on the page was a photograph of the child James had murdered in the woods so long ago.

He grabbed at the bedclothes to steady himself. How could Natalia have a picture of the child, here, like this?

(He remembered that cold night, sitting on the rock with the girl on his lap, the sickening vibration of breaking bones shivering up his arm when he snapped her neck.)

James made himself look at the photograph again. The child was younger here than in his memory, but it was the same face, the same happy smile.

But this was not the child from James' memory.

This photograph was of a boy, with light brown hair cut short. He grinned at the camera with the dead girl's smile, and James didn't _understand_.

James flipped the page on the book. There the boy was again, sitting on a huge horse in one photo, standing in a mud puddle the next.

Who was this child?

That question was answered as James turned the next page. This time, the boy was not alone in the photograph. Natalia held the boy in her arms, smiling at the child as the boy grinned at the camera.

This could only be John Sheppard. Natalia's son. His son.

James sank back on his heels, sick to his stomach. He remembered the little girl with the red hair vividly, as if it had been only weeks before and not decades since he found her alone in the woods. That girl had looked almost identical to John Sheppard as a child, and it didn't make any sense. How could such a child exist?

And why had James killed her?

"What are you doing?" Natalia asked from the doorway.

Hearing Natalia's voice, the realization hit James like a brick to the head. There was one way for James to have met a girl-child who so closely resembled Natalia's son.

What if the child he murdered had been Natalia's daughter?

"What are you looking at that for?" Natalia continued. James heard her footsteps cross the carpeted floor, nearing him. She took the book up off the bed and snapped it shut. "I—what's wrong."

Blood rushing in his ears, James managed to look up at Natalia. She stared down at him with concern on her face.

"Are you ill?" she asked, dropping the book onto the bed and reaching for him. "Did you have another flashback?"

The touch of her hand on his arm shocked him to motion; he tumbled back, nearly falling over before he regained his feet.

"What's wrong, soldier?" Natalia asked sharply, switching to Russian.

James backed against the wall. His entire world had narrowed down to one point. He had to know if the child he killed had been Natalia's daughter.

"James?"

He swallowed hard. He had to know. "Did you have a daughter?" he asked in Russian, hardly able to get the words out.

Natalia's face went dead-white, her eyes wide and unblinking. For a moment she stood frozen. "What did you say?" she finally said.

Her reaction was all the answer James needed. He wondered distantly if he would be sick. "Did you have a daughter?" he asked again.

Natalia pressed her hands flat against her stomach as she stared at him. "Yes," she said after another pause.

It all made a horrific sort of sense now; why Department X had sent the Winter Soldier to kill a child. She had been Natalia's daughter, and possibly his own. "What happened?"

"She died." Natalia turned away from him deliberately, going over to the bed. She folded a few towels with shaking hands.

James made himself stand still. He had to tell Natalia what had happened, that he had been the one to kill the child in the forest. Natalia might kill him herself but that was all that he deserved, for what he had done.

"I was seven months pregnant," Natalia went on, and that pulled James around in confusion. What did that have to do with the death of a five-year-old girl? "I thought everything was going to be fine, that maybe I could just walk away from my life, that this was a second chance."

Natalia sat on the edge of the bed, the towel half-forgotten on her lap. James stared at her, hardly able to breathe.

"It was after Romania, after you… died." Natalia moved her thumb over the edge of the fabric. "You were dead and I was as good as dead to John. Department X was a mess after the fall of the Union and there wasn't anything for me anywhere. This was my chance to get out, just be normal."

James couldn't speak, couldn't move.

"And then she stopped moving," Natalia went on, her voice wavering just the slightest bit. "She stopped moving and there was nothing I could do. I went into labour two days later and she was born dead."

Still not looking at James, Natalia stood up abruptly. She walked to the closet and pulled out a jacket.

"So I wrapped her in my shirt and I buried her in the woods," Natalia said, shrugging on the jacket. "That's all there is."

"Natalia…"

"I'm going out," Natalia said, brushing past James without looking at him. A few moments later, the apartment door slammed hard.

For a few long minutes, James couldn't move. He didn't understand how things had gone so wrong, so quickly.

He'd had no idea Natalia had been pregnant in Romania… if in fact the child was his. It might not have been. But it was Natalia's, and the flat pain in her voice was all that mattered.

Finally, James walked out of the bedroom. The apartment itself was still. James made his way to the kitchen, for lack of anything better to do. Most of the groceries still sat on the table and counter. James ran his hand through his shortened hair. "Hey, Jarvis?"

"Yes, sergeant?" Jarvis responded.

"You listen to any of that?"

"I have not been monitoring the interior of Agent Romanoff's apartment," Jarvis said, sounding affronted. "As you know, I only activate when requested."

"Yeah." James approached the table. Fruit lay in a pile. "Did Natasha leave the building?"

A pause, then Jarvis said apologetically, "Agent Romanoff has requested that her movements not be reported to others in the Tower at this time."

James picked up an apple. "Could I send her a message?" he asked.

"Agent Romanoff has also requested that no messages from the Tower be passed along," Jarvis said. "What exactly has transpired between the two of you?"

James put the apple back down. "Too much history, that's all."

Without anything else to do, James started putting the food away. Fruits, vegetables and milk all went into the refrigerator. He put jars and boxes into cupboards at random; Natalia would be able to figure things out later.

He finally came to a paper box tucked away at the back of the counter, behind a bag of sugar. The box had a glossy logo on the cover, and when he managed to open the lid, he found a cheerily decorated chocolate cake.

James stared down at that cake for a long time. Finally, he closed the box again and pushed it back to where Natalia had placed it.

For the first time in days, James seriously wondered what good he was doing here. He'd clawed his way back into Natalia's life, but what good was he to her?

He hadn't been there when Natalia had given birth to her son, nor when she'd lost her daughter. He also hadn't been there when Natalia had to fake her own death, leaving her son behind in America. For decades, he'd moved in and out of her life at the request of the Department X handlers. Only now he knew that included the Goa'uld Isis, who had used James to control Natalia for all those years.

Exhausted, James finished putting things away in Natalia's kitchen. He left the cake on the counter, untouched.

Going back into the bedroom, James folded the towels and put them into the closet. When he turned back to the bed, he saw the photo album lying on the blankets.

He should put it back where he'd found it. It wasn't as if he had any right to John Sheppard's life.

James sat on the edge of the bed and opened the book.

The first pages were photos of Natalia and a tiny, squishy infant. A few of the photographs held a dark-haired man, whom James assumed was Natalia's mark, Patrick Sheppard. But the focus of the photos was always the child.

As James turned the pages, he watched John Sheppard grow older. The boy seemed a happy one, smiling and laughing. James lingered over the photos where John and Natalia were together; John usually holding Natalia's hand, or hugging her. For her part, Natalia looked at her son with happiness in her eyes.

The photos went on like this for a few pages, then the boy in the photos was suddenly older. The next photo was of John and a small blond infant sitting on a couch. John must have been five years old, and there was no hint of the happiness he'd once shared with his mother.

Natalie Sheppard had been dead for two years.

James paused on that picture. Here, John Sheppard still looked like the little girl from the woods, but he was starting to grow into his own man here. If one could say that about a child.

The rest of the photos in the book, admittedly not many, were of John's accomplishments growing up. School photos and sports team photos made way for graduation photos, first from high school, then college. There was a photograph of a young John Sheppard in his air force uniform sporting shiny new lieutenant bars.

The last photograph in the book was of John and Natalia together in New York. It must have been very recent, for the buildings in the background showed signs of the Battle of New York the previous year. Natalia stood next to her son, her arm hooked through his. John's smile was faint but there, and Natalia…

Natalia was _happy_.

James closed the book. In all those years in Department X, that had been the one thing James could never give Natalia. He had taught her the skills she needed to survive and excel in her trade; had shared her company and her bed; fought at her side in the field.

But he didn't think he had ever made her happy.

* * *

By eight o'clock, when Natalia had not yet returned, James's unease had given way to panic. Jarvis still refused to send Natalia any messages from the Tower, never mind that the day before they'd all been attacked by armed assailants. Not even James' pointed questions of _what if she needs help_ made it past Jarvis.

Finally, James stormed out of Natalia's apartment and climbed the stairs to Steve's floor.

Steve opened the door to James' heavy knock. "What?" he asked, looking much the same as he had earlier in the day.

"Can you send a message to Natasha?" James asked without preamble. "Jarvis won't do it for me and I need to know she's okay."

Steve frowned. "What happened? Did you have a fight?"

"That's one way of putting it," James said. He was too worried to care much what Steve thought. "Look, she left and I just need her to know…" What did he even want? "If she wants me gone, I'll go, just… she can come back."

Steve was staring at James. "What the hell happened with you two? You were fine earlier."

"Stuff happened, that's all," James told him. "Will you just make sure Natasha's all right?"

"Yeah, I'll call her right now."

"Thanks." James stepped back from the door. "I appreciate this."

Steve shook his head. "If she does kick you out, you can spend the night here, you hear?"

"Yeah, I hear."

Steve closed his apartment door, leaving James to walk back down the stairs to Natalia's place. He hadn't meant to tell Steve he'd leave if Natalia wanted him to; the idea hadn't really occurred to him until he was speaking. But it was probably for the best. He couldn't just walk back into her life after all this time and mess up the good things she had going for her and expect her to thank him for it.

So he'd leave if she wanted.

James made it back to Natalia's apartment. He had half-hoped that she would have returned while he was gone, but the rooms were as empty as when he had left.

James looked at the holographic displays, where he'd been picking away at Sheppard's various make-work projects while he waited for Natalia to return. Leaving that for the moment, he headed into the bedroom. If he was going to have to leave, it would be easier on them both for him to be ready when Natalia returned.

He packed a small bag with the clothes Natalia had bought for him. He would find a way to pay her back for what she had done for him.

Gripping the handle of the bag tightly, he looked around the bedroom. In the days he had spent at the Tower, this place was starting to feel like home to him, like nothing had in so many years.

No matter. This was Natalia's home, not his.

He carried the bag out to the living room and set it beside the couch. All he could do now was to wait for Natalia to return.

Going back to the displays, James set himself to the task of completing Sheppard's reports, all somewhat less interesting after the attack on the Tower. But Sheppard had his hoops for James to jump through, and James would comply and bide his time until he figured out what Sheppard was really after.

The work was simple enough that James' thoughts kept sliding back to the argument with Natalia, and beyond that. If the little girl in the woods had not been Natalia's daughter, who had she been? Why did she look so very much like a young John Sheppard? Why was she all alone?

Most important of all, how was James such a monster that he had killed a small child, instead of letting her live? In none of his other missions had he been sent to deliberately kill a child. Why hadn't he just let the girl live? What truths did people believe from children, after all?

James rubbed his eyes. It didn't matter. He had done what he had done, and there was no changing the past. Only living with it.

He wondered what Natalia's daughter would have been like, had she lived long enough to be born.

* * *

He opened his eyes to darkness.

Sitting bolt upright, James reached for a non-existent gun as he took in his surroundings. Natalia's apartment, he knew by scent and the vague outlines of shapes around him. He must have fallen asleep. But who had turned out the lights?

The curtains were drawn back on the far window, showing the tiny lights of the city long after sunset. A black shape stood by the window, looking down. It took James a long moment to recognize the silhouette.

"You were sleeping when I came in," Natalia said out of the darkness.

"What time is it?"

"Past three." The dark shadow in the window turned. "I got Steve's message."

Message. James had to cast around a bit to remember the afternoon. He must be getting old; losing his edge in the field that he couldn't remember instantly in awakening. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked, keeping his voice level.

The dark shape moved across the floor, skirting furniture effortlessly. It stopped when it was a few feet from James, and in the faint light from the window James could make out Natalia's face. She looked… tired.

"I want you to stay," Natalia said softly, stepping closer and putting her hands on his waist. "I don't want you to leave."

"But what I said…"

Natalia shushed him with a finger on his lips. "You didn't know."

"No I didn't, but—"

"Being reminded about it brought a lot back," Natalia interrupted him. "I needed some time to put my thoughts in order."

She stepped away from him then, taking hold of his hand and pulling him along with her. She guided him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

"I can sleep on the couch if you want," James offered, fumbling around in the dark.

"You don't have to do that." Natalia turned on the bedside lamp, its soft glow nearly blinding after the darkness. "Come to bed."

James watched Natalia as she moved around the room, removing her clothing, laying the handgun she kept in her waistband into the drawer by the bed. After a few minutes, he shucked off his own clothes and moved to grab his sleepwear from the dresser.

Natalia's hand on his lower back stilled him. "You don't need to do that," she murmured, pulling him naked over to the bed.

"Are you sure?"

Natalia's response was to remove her bra and drop it on the floor, followed by her underwear. She pulled back the blankets and climbed naked into the bed.

James wasn't entirely certain what was going through Natalia's head, but he climbed into bed after her. Natalia pulled the blankets up over them, then reached across James to turn off the light. In the sudden darkness, James felt Natalia settle against him. She was chilled, her skin cold to the touch.

"Where did you go?" James asked, wrapping his arm around Natalia's shoulders

She rested her forehead against his cheek, her breath soft on his throat. "I walked around," she said. "Thinking."

She lapsed into silence for a few minutes, but James knew she hadn't fallen asleep; her body was too tense against his.

"I don't usually think about what happened," she said after a while. "There are some weeks I don't think about her at all."

"I'm sorry," James said, for once at a complete loss as to what to say to this woman.

She wiggled around, slipping her leg over his. Her feet were cold against his calf. "I never told anyone about her," Natalia said in a voice nearly inaudible. "I just tried to go on with life as I knew it."

If her baby had been stillborn after Romania, so soon after his death had been faked, that must have been late in 1999, if not early in 2000. James knew that she had been pulled into SHIELD in 2002. What had she done in those two years, alone?

"Why did you ask?" Natalia said, shifting so her arm lay across his chest. "If we had a daughter?"

That had not been what he asked, but her phrasing gave him the answer to at least one of his questions. The child had been his.

"I don't know." James was glad that it was dark, and Natalia could not see his face as he lied to her. "I saw those pictures of John and I just asked."

He waited for her to call him out on his lie, to demand he tell her the truth, but she said nothing, just cuddled against him, her skin warming as she lay with him.

James was nearly asleep when he heard Natalia whisper, "I was going to name her Lara," and there was absolutely nothing James could say.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

James woke early the next morning. In the low light filtering in from the curtain, he could make out Natalia in the bed, lying on her side facing away from him.

He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think she was asleep.

After a few minutes, James slipped out from between the covers and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind him before flipping on the light. He blinked as his eyes grew used to the change in illumination.

The sight of himself in the mirror caught at his attention. This time, it wasn't the wreck of his upper body that made him stare; it was his hair. He had nearly forgotten that Steve had lopped most of it off the previous day.

All in all, James thought it wasn't all that bad. Maybe a little shaggy on the sides, but it would pass muster in the barracks.

He quickly showered and shaved, then wrapped a towel around his waist to head into the kitchen. He had been too worried about Natalia to eat the previous evening, and now he was starving.

He had the porridge cooking and the kettle boiling by the time Natalia entered the kitchen. She didn't speak as she came up behind him and put her arms around his waist.

"Morning," he said. She pressed herself against him, resting her cheek on his back. "We can eat soon."

"Why are you cooking?" she asked, her voice still soft with sleep.

"I'm hungry."

She kissed the back of his neck. "I'll stir. You put some pants on."

The bedroom was still a bit of a mess from the previous day. James opened one drawer in the dresser, only to realize that all his clothing was still packed in the bag in the living room. James instead tugged on the boxers he had worn the day before and was back in the kitchen in under a minute.

Natalia was spooning porridge into bowls when he returned. James went to the kettle to make the tea, and in a few minutes they were sitting at the table.

"Thank you for breakfast," Natalia said, scooting her chair closer to his. He felt her hand rest on his thigh.

He smiled at her briefly, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the sluggishness in her movements. He wondered if she had slept at all that night. "I might not cook all that much, but I can still do some things," he said. "If anyone asks, I make a mean cheese sandwich." He gestured with his spoon. "And popcorn."

Natalia smiled absently at him as she drank her tea. "Bachelor cooking at its finest."

"Hey, that got me and Steve through quite a few years," James said. For some reason, memories of his life as Bucky Barnes didn't hurt as much this morning. "If you ever need someone to fry up some bacon, I'm your man."

He scraped the last of the porridge into his mouth and let the spoon fall into the bowl with a clatter as he reached for his tea.

Natalia was watching him, holding her own teacup with both hands. "I want to ask you something," she said after a few minutes.

James was certain that nothing good could come from that lead-in, but he shrugged anyway. "What?"

Natalia took a steadying breath. "Yesterday, when you were looking at the photographs of John, you asked me if I had a daughter." Her eyes were steady and very green as she watched him. "Why did you do that?"

James looked down at the table. "I don't know what you mean."

Natalia's chair scraped back as she stood. He braced himself for her reaction, but all she did was carry the empty dishes to the sink. "Do not treat me as any less than I am," she said in Russian, her back to him. "If you refuse to tell me, that is one thing, but do not lie to me."

James rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't sure what had made him think they could put the previous day behind them, as if Natalia being forced to remember that she had lost their daughter could be swept under the rug like it was unimportant.

"I do not think you will like what I have to say," he said.

"I am certain I will not," Natalia replied, returning to her chair. "Tell me anyway."

James did not know how she would take this, but if there was to be any chance of a future with her, he had to tell her. "I told you about the little girl," he began, "The one in my dreams."

"You said that you broke her neck."

"I did." James ran his tongue over his lower lip, making himself look at Natalia. "But I remember her before that. And she looked... she looked like those pictures of John."

Natalia frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I mean," James said, pushing his chair back from the table, "That the little girl looked like John. Other than her hair, and that she was as thin as a stick, those pictures of John could have been pictures of her."

"Is that why you asked about my daughter?" Natalia shifted around in her chair. "Because you mixed up John with this little girl?"

"I didn't mix anyone up," James said abruptly. This conversation was giving him a headache; just a slight pain behind his eyes. "The girl, she looked like your son in those pictures."

Natalia sat back, smoothing her hands over the table. "I do not think that you are right," she said carefully. "You have mixed up faces before—"

"No, do not tell me that I am wrong!" James exclaimed. "This isn't like Steve and Osinov, me getting confused. That little girl looked like John!"

Natalia stood. "You saw John when he was a child," she reminded him. "How many other children have you seen? It's possible—"

"That I imagined your son as the little girl I killed?" James demanded, the growing pain in his head making him react more forcibly than he should have. "That is not what happened!"

Natalia held up her hands, palms up as if to placate him. "Your memory has been buried a long time—"

"But I remember!" James pressed his hand against his temple; the headache was coming on him hard now. He wondered distantly if this was what a migraine felt like. "There was a girl, in the woods, and she had red hair and dirty feet and we picked berries and she kept talking about monsters in the river, like such a thing as a rusalka could be real!"

Natalia went very still. "You picked berries?" she whispered, and that should have been a clue but all James could focus on was the growing pain behind his eyes.

Still, he tried to continue. "She was a little girl all alone in the woods and she trusted me. She said I was her friend."

James' voice broke as the pain in his head intensified. He blinked hard, rubbing his hand over his forehead as if that might do anything to stop the headache in its tracks.

Natalia hadn't moved, standing frozen with her hands out. "What was her name?"

It was there, on the tip of his tongue, the girl's name he had never been able to find in sleep. But there was a roaring now, a freight train bearing down upon him and the pain in his head was pushing him down, heavier than all the weight in the world.

Lights, voices, all sound and shapes blurred. Hands on his body and he tried to lash out but his arm wasn't working (arm, arm, _where was his arm_?) his legs weren't working and his head, his head.

Then nothing but grey.

* * *

 

Sound came to him in waves. A voice; a voice he knew, speaking fast and urgent. There was some disaster upon them, he knew even in his state. He fought to wake himself, but the fog would not lift. The grey thickness pushed at him, keeping him tangled in its grip.

Pressures on his body. Hot and cold. Sharp and dull.

The voice was slower now, speaking one word after another. Numbers. He listened for a while as the numbers slid past his consciousness, until he began to remember what this was.

It was the recovery sequence; a string of numbers in a sequence, repeated over and over by the handler until the subject joined in.

So he listened, and when he recognized the spot to join in he opened his mouth and said, "Eleven," only it took too long for the word to come out and it overlaid the other's _seventeen_.

The counting stopped. A soft pressure, something cushioning his head, and the numbers started again.

This time, the numbers came so slowly that he was able to repeat the entire sequence. The next cycle, he spoke the numbers in time.

As he spoke, concentrating his entire effort on the numbers, the fog lifted slowly.

He ran through the entire recovery sequence twice before he remembered that he knew the woman who spoke with him. Natalia. Her name was Natalia, and he was in her home.

He tried to push himself upright, but when he reached out with his left arm there was nothing there. The counting broke off. "Let me help you," the woman (Natalia, her name was Natalia) said. Her hands steadied him as he sat up. The tile floor was cold beneath him.

A commotion, out of sight. "In here!" Natalia called out, but he kept counting. He had to keep counting.

Two people rushed into the room; he could see their legs in the corner of his eye as he blinked at the far wall, always counting.

"What happened?" someone asked.

"He had a seizure," Natalia responded, holding him against her body.

"Do you know what triggered it?" asked another voice. Someone knelt in front of him, dark hair and dark eyes, reaching for him.

He pulled away, kicked out, but Natalia held him around the chest and shushed softly in his ear. "You're safe. Bruce is a friend."

He held still, counting inside his head as the man (Bruce) held up a flat piece of metal. "This monitors brain activity. I'm going to put this on your forehead."

He just stared at the man, holding Natalia's arm tight across his chest with his one arm (he had lost his other arm; someone ripped off his other arm). Bruce hesitated, then carefully reached forward and pressed the metal onto his forehead.

He waited for the hooks to dig in, for the electricity to flash, but no, this wasn't one of those instruments. The device didn't even feel hot.

"Do you know what might have triggered this?" the man Bruce was asking. "Does he have a history of seizures?"

"I do know," Natalia said, her fingers digging into his side. "And it's complicated."

"What does that mean?" Bruce asked, removing the instrument from his forehead.

At this point, he shifted on the floor, and the way the fabric lay in his lap made him look down. His underwear had a wet spot on the front. For a moment, that meant nothing to him. Then, his brain kicked in and he began to claw his way out from under the confusion.

His name was James Barnes. He was in Natalia's apartment. They had been having breakfast, and now he was lying on the floor in a pool of his own piss.

"Let go of me," he said, trying to push Natalia away. The words sounded slurred to his own ears.

"Is it possible he had a stroke?" Bruce was asking Natalia.

"Let. Go." Those words James was able to say quite clearly.

After a moment, Natalia released him. He was able to stay upright without her support, which he supposed was progress.

"I don't think he had a stroke," Natalia said. "He has been subject to seizures in the past."

"Family history?"

"It was a thing that was done to him," Natalia said tightly.

It didn't matter to James if he had had a seizure, a stroke, or been hit in the head hard enough to knock him to next Tuesday. He was not going to sit in a pool of his own urine while all these people stared down at him. "I'm gonna shower," he said, making each word clear.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Bruce said.

"Don't care." He slowly got to his knees, then grabbed the counter and pulled himself upright. The world wobbled a little under his feet, but he did not fall again.

"Someone should go with him," Steve said, sounding worried. "In case he has another fit.

"You wanna watch me shower, knock yourself out," James said. He let go of the counter as he took one step, then another. He managed to stay on his feet.

Natalia put her hand on his back, a spot of warmth in the cold. "Don't talk about anything," she said, looking past him to Steve. "Don't ask him anything about what happened."

"Why not?"

"Because I think that's what triggered this in the first place." She ran her hand up James' back. "If you need anything," she said, switching to Russian, "Ask Steve."

"I don't need anything," James muttered. His headache was receding, leaving a thick fuzziness overlaying his awareness.

"Do not be so prideful that you cause yourself harm," Natalia said, her voice sharp.

"Is that an order?" he asked, defensive.

She looked up at him, lips pressed together. For the first time, James saw the lines of tension around her eyes. "It is a request," she said as she reached up to touch his cheek. "Please."

He stepped away from her, keeping his eyes on the ground. His balance was off; his body wanted to lean into his missing arm the way he once had, but he was aware enough to know that would push him off-balance and topple him to the ground. One foot in front of the other, across the kitchen floor, down the corridor to the bathroom.

The only saving grace he could muster up was that he was not dripping urine as he walked.

He could feel Steve's presence behind him, large and close and burning hot, but he could not pull together any irritation at Steve. His head was still fuzzy and his body felt disconnected. He did not remember having a seizure before, but Natalia had said he had done. Rather, that it had been done to him.

But why would Department X have done that to him? And what had happened that morning to make it repeat itself here?

He entered the bathroom and headed to the shower. Without pausing to remove his underwear, he turned on the water full-blast. The cold spray from the showerhead hit him in the face, washing down over his skin. The chill of the water cut through the lingering fog in his head, until gradually he was able to think back without confusion.

He had been speaking to Natalia about the little girl, the one in the woods. Natalia has asked if he knew her name, and that was when the seizure hit him.

No, that wasn't all. His head began to hurt when he spoke to Natalia of the child, long before that moment. But why? He had been remembering her, dreaming about her, and his head had not hurt at those times. Why should speaking of it be any different?

He stayed still until he could no longer bear the cold, then quickly shucked off his underwear and kicked it to the side of the shower stall. He was conscious of Steve leaning against the counter, silent and still, but that irritation lingered at the back of his mind as he reached for the faucet. He turned on the hot water, letting out a sigh as the water turned warm.

He quickly soaped himself and washed before turning off the water. He wasn't warmed through, but the brief spot of heat was enough to help him come back to himself.

Steve was waiting with a towel. James gave Steve a look as he grabbed the towel out of the other man's hands. "Don't be eyeing me like I'm going to fall over at any minute."

"You never had anything like this happen to you when we were kids," Steve said, looking lost without something to hold onto.

"What, drooling and shaking on the floor?" James snapped, drying himself off as best he could with one hand.

"You weren't drooling," Steve said. "It was like you weren't able to wake all the way up." He looked away. "Natasha was pretty worried."

James tossed the towel on the counter. "Don't make a big deal out of it," he said, the old irritation at Steve coming back. "It's no big deal."

He turned his back on Steve and walked into the bedroom, intent on salvaging some shreds of his dignity by getting dressed. It was only once he was looking in the dresser that he remembered all his belongings were packed in a bag that was sitting by the front door.

The frustration and exhaustion hit him then. He put his hand on the dresser to hold himself up as the day, the week, everything pressed down on his shoulders.

Many years before, he had killed a child. Today, talking with Natalia about what he remembered had nearly killed him. Maybe that was justice, he thought. The universe striking him dead for all the things he had been forced to do.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked quietly.

James blinked at the dresser-top, at Natalia's knick-knacks arranged neatly in a row. "My clothes" he said. His voice came out rough, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "My clothes are in a bag by the door."

"I'll get it."

James kept staring down at the dresser after Steve left. One of the knick-knacks was a small souvenir keychain from Niagara Falls. Had James ever been there? He knew he had seen a waterfall before, but perhaps not Niagara Falls. Maybe he and Natalia could go there, one day.

"Got it." Steve blustered back into the room, the canvas bag holding all James' worldly possessions dangling from one hand.

James pushed off the dresser. "Throw it over here," he said, walking to the neatly-made bed. "You can take off if you want."

Steve tossed the bag across the room. "I can hang around for a little while," he said, leaning against the wall.

James rolled his eyes. "I ain't gonna fall over again," he said as he unzipped the bag. "But hey, you want to watch some cripple get dressed, pull up a seat."

"Why do you talk about yourself like that?"

James dug around in the bag for underwear. "Because I'm being realistic." There, clean underwear. James sat on the bed and carefully stepped into the boxers, one foot at a time. He shimmied the fabric up his legs, lifting the elastic waistband over his dick, then stood, settling the underwear in place on his hips. "I'm a guy with one hand just trying to get dressed after pissing himself on the kitchen floor. You got another word for that?"

"How about 'recovering'?" Steve suggested.

James pulled a folded black shirt out of the bag. "Doesn't have the same ring as cripple, now, does it?"

He found the pants he was looking for, at the bottom of the bag. He shook the fabric out and, holding onto the waistband, stuck out his left foot and pulled and kicked until his foot emerged through the end of the pant leg. He repeated the process for the right foot, then stood and pulled the trousers up.

"How are you…" Steve paused, fumbling a bit for the words. "Managing?"

James did up the zipper, then quickly secured the trousers' button. "It wasn't like I had any great sense of movement with the metal arm," he said. "You get used to what you can't change."

He picked up the shirt and pulled it over his head, then slid his arm through the sleeve. There. He had showered and dressed without another seizure. Now all he had to do was to get Natalia to explain what the hell had happened.

"Are you feeling okay?" Steve asked.

James had a sudden urge to laugh in Steve's face. Of course he _wasn't_ _okay_ ; his arm had been ripped off by an alien, his own memories were trying to kill him, and he had a sinking suspicion that Natalia was keeping something from him. Why would he be _okay_?

But he did not laugh, because he knew what Steve was asking; for years when they were growing up, James had been the one asking the same thing of Steve. "It's been a shitty morning," was all James said.

"Will you let me know if you need anything?"

James shook his head. "You're such a pain in the ass," he said, punching Steve in the bicep on his way to the door.

Steve cracked a faint smile, and slapped James on the back. "Takes one to know one, jerk."

Bruce was sitting in the living room, Jarvis's holographic display pulled up. Natalia was nowhere in sight, but the faint scent of cleaning products drifted in from the kitchen.

"Good news," Bruce said when James slumped down on the sofa. "Your brain scan doesn't show any indication of a stroke."

"I could have told you that," James said, running his hand through his still-damp hair.

Bruce tapped the display, and up popped a diagram of a human brain. "The scans I took show some residual abnormal brain activity in certain areas."

Steve frowned. "Is it dangerous?"

"Only if it had continued," Bruce said. "If Natasha is right and this resulted from a specific trigger, it might happen again."

"Why would anyone do something like that to a person?" Steve asked.

"A failsafe," Natalia said, coming into the room. She sat on the sofa beside James. "When one could not afford to have the subject remember a mission."

Bruce was staring at Natalia. "You've seen something like this before?"

"I have heard of its existence," Natalia said. She put her hand on James' knee. "A form of mental programming so deep, so dangerous, that it was more likely to kill the subject during the implantation process."

"What does it do?" Steve asked.

Natalia's fingers moved on James' pant leg, her restlessness betraying her upset. "If the memory can not be removed, it is suppressed in the mind."

"How can a memory be removed?" Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

It was Bruce who responded. "If the body experiences a trauma in the short period after something happens, it can prevent a person from remembering it. Like sometimes people who are in a car crash can forget what happened in the hours, or even days before that."

Natalia bit her lower lip. "That was possible after short missions, but not the long ones, once memories had been formed."

James covered her hand with his, knowing that such reassurances were useless against the past. He did not remember much about his time on the programming table, but he remembered the helplessness, and the pain.

"So memory repression techniques were used instead," Natalia was saying. "Normally that was all they did; even if something came back up to the surface later, it would have no meaning without context."

"Unless it was something that the Department couldn't afford to let out, no matter the circumstance," James said. "Are you saying that someone put a kill-switch in my brain?"

"Yes," Natalia said, finally looking at him. "That is what I am saying. If you remembered what happened on that mission, then you would have to die."

James pulled away from Natalia, getting to his feet. "Why would they do that?" he demanded. "Why this mission?"

What had been so special about one little girl?

Natalia sprang to her feet, grabbing James' shirt. "Do not talk about it," she said quickly. "Do not think about!"

"How can I not?" James yelled. "I told you what happened, that I have been dreaming about it! How can I stop now?"

"You must!" Natalia exclaimed, pulling him closer. "I will not lose you to this!"

"Maybe it's what I deserve," James said, pushing Natalia away. And perhaps it was. There had been a little girl in the woods, and she had trusted him, and he had shot her through the head.

No, wait. That wasn't right. He had broken her neck. But now he remembered holding his pistol to the base of her skull, waiting until she was looking at something in the distance, then pulling the trigger and killing her.

(A third, distant memory. Leaving her sleeping under the night sky, looking back at her one last time before walking away, and)

Pain stabbed through his head. He pressed his hand against his forehead as his body doubled up. Hands caught him as he fell, hands on his body and on his head; voices talking, soothing.

He did not lose consciousness this time. He was aware of his surroundings, of Natalia's voice soft in his right ear, guiding him back. Steve was at his side, holding him upright, pressed in a line against the ruined left side of his body.

He thought hard about his left arm, about the pain the metal arm had given him, how the metal bolts ground agonizingly into bone on the bad days, how the weight of the arm had made him spend ten long years with slightly lopsided posture and continual back ache.

He thought about his metal arm and nothing else.

Slowly, his head stopped throbbing, the pain receding to a manageable buzz. He tried to lean back, but Steve and Natalia were still holding him in place. Natalia kissed his cheek, her breath warm on his skin.

"Maybe you were right," he said, his voice raspy. Natalia let out a sound that might have been a laugh.

"It is going to be all right," Natalia murmured his ear.

"That's one hell of a promise to make."

"I mean it."

Natalia eased away from James, motioning at Steve to do the same. Reluctantly, Steve shifted around, letting James sit back against the cushions.

It was only then that he realized that there was something on his head. Reaching up, his fingers encountered the metal plate Bruce had used earlier in the morning to read his brainwaves.

"Find anything?" he asked.

"Yes," Bruce said simply. "Whatever the trigger was, it caused a surge of activity in your hippocampus." He waved at the display, the brain diagram lighting up. "It caused a cascade of activity out from there."

"Is that bad?" James asked, even though he could see the answer. Little lightning flashes rippled out from the structure at the brain's centre, some sparking upwards but most washing down to the base of the brain.

"Yes." Bruce touched the display, freezing the action. "I can't be sure what would have happened, but it's possible that if it had gone any deeper, your heart might have stopped."

James shook his head. It didn't make any sense. Of all the things he had been ordered to do while in the service of the Soviets, why would they have done this to him over the memory of one little girl? He turned to Natalia. "I'll leave it alone," he told her. "Okay?"

Natalia squeezed his wrist. "Thank you," she said.

James pulled at the metal plate on his head, it giving way with only a slight resistance. He handed the thing back to Bruce. "Where did Stark get something like that?"

Bruce slipped the device into his shirt pocket. "A lot of things come out of Tony's lab," he said, as a phone rang somewhere in the room.

Natalia reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She frowned at the screen.

"What?" Steve asked.

"We've been ordered to report to SHIELD for a post-mission brief regarding the Chicago operation," she said, putting the phone away. "I'm not going."

James raised his eyebrows at her. "Chicago?" he repeated. "Is that some sort of code for SHIELD figuring out that an armed squad tried to take out their superheroes two days ago?"

Bruce looked between Natalia and Steve. "Neither of you told SHIELD about the attack?" he asked.

Steve's jaw was set. "I thought Natasha was going to call it in," he said, which was complete bullshit, but James let it slide.

"I thought Steve contacted SHIELD about it," Natalia said innocently.

James rolled his eyes. "Both of you, go. I'll be fine."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Steve objected.

"How could I not be?" James gestured at the ceiling. "Jarvis can keep an eye on me, make sure I don't fall over or anything."

"I will indeed keep an eye on Sgt. Barnes," Jarvis added helpfully. Natalia did not appear convinced.

"I'll be here when you get back," James told her, turning his hand over to grasp hers. "I promise. Then maybe we can have some of that cake you brought home yesterday."

Bruce coughed and turned away discreetly. Steve cleared his throat and stood, giving them some space.

Natalia sighed, glancing down at their joined hands. "I will not lose you again," she said in Russian. "I lost you for thirteen years, and nearly forever in Texas. Not again."

"You won't." He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. "But I do have one question."

He could see the hesitation in her eyes, some deep-seated worry he was about to do something stupid. "Yes?"

He took a deep breath. "Do you really think my hair looks stupid, or are you just annoyed that it was Steve who cut it?"

The expression of relief that passed over her face quickly changed to one of faint annoyance. "I never said your hair looks stupid," she said, standing. "Don't eat that cake without me," she added, switching back to English.

"I won't."

Steve was hesitating by the side of the sofa, hands in his pockets. "I'm glad you're okay," he said. "Just hearing what you been through…"

"Forget about it," James said, getting to his feet so he could face Steve head-on. "I apparently have to."

A ghost of a smile crossed Steve's face. "Just don't be a dummy, that's all."

"Yeah, good luck there."

Natalia had pulled on her jacket and was standing by the door. "Come on," she said to Steve. "Last one to the car has to pay for the drive-through."

"We're not stopping for drive-through," Steve said, hurrying after her.

"Where's your sense of fun?" Natalia called out, giving James one last look, and a small smile, before the door swung closed behind them.

Bruce stayed where he was. As soon as the door closed, James turned to look at the other man, and waited.

Bruce rubbed his chin. "The sort of brain activity on your scans worries me."

"Yeah, well." James tugged his trousers higher on his hips. "I survived this long just not thinking about things, I'll keep on doing that."

"Once thing I've noticed," Bruce said as he stood. "When you're not supposed to think about something, it's hard to forget about it."

"I'm good at compartmentalizing."

"You're going to have to be." Bruce pulled the metal monitoring device from his breast pocket. "This is the part where I suggest you wear this in case it happens again, and where you tell me to go fuck myself."

James glanced at Bruce sharply, not certain if he was imagining the thread of humour in the man's voice. "No, here's the part where I thank you for your concern but I'm going to be fine on my own."

"You don't mind Jarvis keeping an eye on you?"

James shrugged. "Jarvis and me, we get along."

"I will be happy to keep Sgt. Barnes company today," Jarvis put in. "If he has a relapse, I will summon the building's medical attendants from the fourth floor. They can be on the scene in forty-five seconds."

Bruce shook his head. "Let me know if anything happens. I'll be in the labs."

"I'll be sure to holler," James said, and pasted on a smile.

Bruce was still shaking his head as he left the apartment. That left James alone with Jarvis. Suddenly weary, James slumped down on the sofa. "How long have you been around, Jarvis?" he asked.

"Since Agent Romanoff called for aid this morning," Jarvis said. "At that time, my visual and audio monitoring aspects were activated in this apartment."

"So how bad was I, really?"

"I can show you, if you like."

James looked up sharply. "You've got a record of that?" he demanded.

"I do, but as I told you before, all of my recordings within Stark Tower are held with the highest security," Jarvis said, unflappable.

James stared at the display over the table, still showing the diagram off the brain. His brain. "No," he said after a minute. "Maybe later." He wasn't sure if he could stomach watching himself rolling around senseless on the floor. "Just… Don't show it to Stark, okay?"

"Of course not." The display blanked out, leaving an empty interface. "Ms. Potts is in Washington for the day, and Mr. Stark has accompanied her. I do not think Mr. Stark's attention will fall on any of the day's events in New York." Before James could say anything, Jarvis changed the subject. "Would you care to read the news? Watch a movie? Read your messages?"

James looked around the apartment, too empty and quiet. "You got a terminal up in the big kitchen?"

"Affirmative."

James hauled himself upright. Once standing, he took stock. His heartbeat was near its resting rate, there was no hint of dizziness or vertigo, and he was breathing normally. Whatever had happened before, he seemed to have recovered somewhat. For all the good that did him.

His head ached slightly, probably just a delayed physical reaction to the seizure. He had been careful to avoid thinking about the little girl while Natalia and Steve and Bruce were there, but now, with the distractions gone, James found his mind drifting back to that forest, so long ago.

It didn't make any sense, that thinking about the little girl would kill him. He'd been remembering her for days now, first in dreams, now in the waking hours. It had only been when he was talking about her with Natalia that his brain tried to fry itself.

Maybe that was the answer. Just don't talk about it.

Life was a strange thing, James reflected as he stepped into his shoes. In the days after his arm had been ripped off, as he lay on his back in the hospital, he had convinced himself that the best thing would be if his existence on the planet ceased; if James Buchanan Barnes were to die.

But now, more than two weeks later, he had been handed a way out, a literal kill switch in his head, and it infuriated him. Someone put a trigger in his head to hide the truth, and James would be damned if he let them get away with it.

Standing in Natalia's empty apartment in Stark Tower, James knew three things for certain. First off, he was convinced that Natalia knew more than she was letting on about James' broken memories; her words before his seizure told him that.

Second, he was going to find out the truth about the little girl, no matter the cost. He would find out who had ordered him to kill her, and why.

Lastly, there was no way in hell that he was going to let some sadistic Department X scientist to reach up out of the grave to scramble this brains.

He would not go down without a fight.

_to be continued_


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

The Tower penthouse was vacant, the bloodstains washed away. James grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and settled down on the couches, his back to the large windows.

Jarvis brought up the display screens and James spent some time tending to his online personas, replying to comments and emails, posting on a few message boards, following up on various threads. The South African poster had gone dark, leaving James to wonder what was happening in the wings. He sent out some trackers on the man and pushed it aside for the time being. Things in Namibia were quiet for now. He would have to wait to see what would happen next.

After an hour, Jarvis interrupted James' research. "Sergeant, I have a message for you from Colonel Sheppard. He wishes to arrange a video call, when it is convenient for you."

James rubbed his eyes. "Ain't it always a convenient time for a sergeant to talk to a colonel?"

"Shall I put that question to him, or am I to take it that your query was rhetorical?"

"You know I'm joshing," James said, sitting up. "Let's do this." He waited as the screens blanked out, and then John Sheppard appeared on the display. The man was in uniform, but his hair was in such a wild state of disarray that James wondered if he had been sleeping at his desk.

John frowned. "Nice haircut."

James restrained himself from saying _that's what your mother said_. "Thought it might be more proper for active duty, sir."

It was a dig, of course, James pushing for John to explain how a one-armed man could possibly remain in the military, but John just smiled that infuriatingly bland smile of his. "How is everyone?"

"All right," James said. He wasn't about to tell John about his morning's seizure. "Did you get anything out of the mercenaries?"

On the screen, John settled back in his chair and told James about the interrogation of the mercenary team that had attacked Stark Tower earlier in the week. The survivors had the same general story – they had been told that the Tower would be lightly occupied and Pepper Potts would not pose a threat. They had been paid a great deal of money, all of it untraceable.

"Nothing's untraceable," James said, leaning forward. "You need me to take a crack at it?"

"Not sure if would help. When we couldn't trace it, I asked Tony to give it a try. Jarvis didn't have any luck either."

"When did you ask Jarvis for help?" James asked. Natalia hadn't mentioned anything of the kind, and he was sure that John would have told her at least.

"Last night," Jarvis said, entering the conversation quietly. "I finished my trace late in the evening and Mr. Stark communicated my results to Colonel Sheppard."

"Let me guess, all communications are untraceable too," James said.

"Yup." John pushed himself back in his hair, running his hand through his hair and making it worse. "The survivors are talking to us. It sounds like that group had worked together before, some of them for years. Knowing they were lied to and sent in blind on a suicide mission? They're pissed."

"What are you going to do with them now?"

"Get as much as possible out of them before shipping them off to our secure detention facility, that's about as far as I've gotten."

"No trial?" James asked, only half-sarcastically. He was still trying to gauge John's moral guidelines; see how far this son of his might go.

"You think someone pulls off a job like attacking Stark Tower, and they won't have a plan to wrap up loose ends as soon as they can?"

James leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. "You think an American prison can keep that sort of threat out? That those men will be safe from termination?"

He realized, too late, that John might take offence at the slag on the military, but the man just shook his head. "What kind of threats should we be looking for?" John asked.

"Same as I told you for Area 51," James said. "The threat can be external but you're far more likely to be betrayed by a sleeper who's already in the system."

"We vet our people very carefully."

"Which means that they're already on the inside."

John glanced at a file on his desk, tapping at it absently. "How would you feel about coordinating security on these guys?"

"You want me to tell your people how to keep a bunch of guys in lock-up?" James asked, surprised.

"I want you to offer your expertise to _our_ people on how to keep these guys contained, and to keep them safe from outside threats." John was looking at James with an intensity that was very unlike his mother. "If they were working directly for Isis, that would be a different story, but given what we've seen so far…" John shook his head. "I've got a feeling that whoever set this up to grab Pepper was going to scorch the earth after they got her."

Scorch the earth and salt the ground, James silently agreed. Had the mercenaries actually succeeded in getting Pepper Potts out of the Tower, he doubted any of them would have survived the following twenty-four hours. "Are you holding them together or in separate cells?"

"Separate," John said. "This isn't my first rodeo, you know."

James didn't understand what rodeos had to do with anything, but he was used to not understanding slang when he came out of stasis. He let the comment pass. "You want me to start on that now?"

"I'll send you the details when we're done," John said. "How about we go over some of those reports you were working on?"

James waited while John pulled something up on his laptop. In spite of his dishevelment, John looked younger than he usually did, and that was saying something. James knew Natalia's son was forty-two years old, but John Sheppard appeared nearly as young as Natalia herself. Was it some trick of genetics that kept him looking so youthful, or was it something else?

James didn't know what sorts of things the U.S. military might be doing to its soldiers these days, especially those who worked in outer space.

John was already talking about the implementation of the revised security protocols at Area 51. "And Major Gordon wasn't too thrilled with the idea that the guy who broke into her base was making these suggestions," John added, unable to keep a smirk off his face.

"Did she put them in place?" James asked.

"Yeah, they were some good ideas." John tapped at his computer, and another display screen appeared to show an electrical schematic. "The idea about separating the power supply for the security systems for places other than the Vaults will take some time, but they're working on it."

"Do you have something similar in place at Stargate Command?" James asked. "Just in case."

"The set-up down there is a bit different," John admitted. "More about keeping any alien threat contained, rather than keeping people from upstairs, out."

"You don't think that's a bit backwards?"

John shrugged. "When the Stargate program started, the biggest threat the facility faced was that the Goa'uld would use the Stargate to get to Earth and cause some serious damage. It's still a fairly big worry that someone will try to sneak an infection agent or a weapon onto earth."

James tried to digest this. "Is the Stargate the main way for space travel? Or is it those spaceships Stark was talking about?"

John's expression faltered, then the pleasant look was back. "We only have a few spaceships. Most of the civilizations in the galaxy are on planets with Stargates, so it's just easier to use Gate travel. But the bigger players in the galaxy have ships that can travel between solar systems. The Goa'uld, and the Asgard back in the day. And the Wraith."

The man's voice was too calm as he talked about alien enemies. James wondered what the man was hiding, and why. "I know about the Goa'uld," James said. "What are those other two?"

John slouched down as he explained about the Asgard, how they were technologically advanced aliens and they helped the humans of the SGC with technology and ideas before they committed mass-suicide. "And that's different from the other Asgard, like Thor who went off with Barton to help the Tok'ra get rid of Isis," he concluded, shaking his head. "Carter's better at giving this speech. She's been with the SGC since the beginning."

"How long did you work with her?" James asked. Colonel Samantha Carter was the highest ranking woman he'd seen at the SGC. And being in charge of one of the SGC's spaceships told James in what regard she was held by the military.

"On Atlantis, for a year," John said. "Colonel Carter was head of the Atlantis project. It's actually good that she's back on Earth right now. One of the oversight committees is trying yet again to ramp up the weaponization of Atlantis. There's an awful lot the Ancients left behind in the city, most of it dangerous. Keeping that shit on Atlantis and out of the hands of domestic squabbles is difficult. Everyone is always looking for a better weapon."

Having spent decades as one of those _better weapons_ , James understood. "But if the SGC has Goa'uld and Asgard technology, what's wrong with this Ancient stuff?"

"Goa'uld weapons were made primarily to destroy their enemies and keep their subjects in line," John said. "The Asgard gave us a lot of their tech, but not stuff they didn't think we could handle. The Ancients were into all sorts of weird shit, scientifically speaking. After the Chitauri attacked New York last year, there are some folks on the IOA who are more keen on getting their hands on anything they can turn into a weapon against aliens, but who knows how long it'll be until they start to turn those on our allies, or even their own people."

Wonderful. Just what the world needed, an alien arms race. "How have you managed to hold that off?"

"We lucked out," John said. He rubbed his chin, his eyes distant. "Back when they started the Stargate program, the General in charge was a really good man. He understood the kind of shit they were dealing with. George Hammond, ever heard of him?"

Hammond, like Colonel Carter's ship. It was unlikely to be a coincidence. "No."

"I think it helped, back in the beginning, having an external threat to focus on. The Goa'uld were none too thrilled that Earth was back in the game. The mission back then was to keep the Goa'uld off Earth."

James wondered if John was keeping something back, or if he truly believed what he said. "No one had any other ideas?"

A humourless smile flashed across John's face. "What, to use alien technology to crush domestic disturbances? Of course they did."

"How did that end?"

"For the most part, dismantled when their activities were brought to life," John said. "Participation in the Stargate program is wider than just the American military. That level of international participation helps keep things from getting out of hand."

"Including the Russians?"

John glanced away, just for a moment. "That's how we go the Winter Soldier files so fast. General Mikhailov was our contact with the Russian military and he…." John shifted in his seat. "He came well prepared."

James clenched his teeth, trying to suppress his emotional reaction to that butcher's name. He did not remember much of the time General Mikhailov was in charge of the Department X program. The scientists said he'd had a stroke that damaged his memory, but Natalia told him the truth; that Mikhailov had pushed his programming so far that the Winter Soldier had been wiped clean, turned into a feral animal with nothing human left in him.

He clenched his hand, holding back the urge to lash out. He wasn't an animal, wasn't the mindless killing machine Mikhailov had tried to turn him into. Even at his worst as the Winter Soldier, he was not an animal.

Taking in a deep breath, James willed himself to relax. "Did you read all the files?" he asked after a minute.

"Everything Mikhailov gave me." John was watching him very closely. "There are some gaps, though."

"When I was in stasis."

"No, it's more than that. The files had medical records, detailing how long you were in stasis. Something about making sure you didn't get freezer-burn."

"It did _not_ say that," James objected.

John shrugged. "I'm paraphrasing. Anyway, I compared that to the files Mikhailov handed over, and there some gaps in the records."

Gaps in the records. Unbidden, James' mind skittered back to a memory of the little girl. This time, she was in a rickety peasant's hut, sitting beside a dead body and she had been so angry at him for following her.

The flash of memory was accompanied by a pulse of pain behind his eyes. He dropped his head to his hand and tried to think of something else. After a minute, the pain receded.

"You okay?"

James sat back. To hell with everything. He had to know if there was something in his files about the girl. "You ever read anything in there about a kill-switch in my head?" he asked.

The lackadaisical attitude about John quickly fell away. "I didn't see anything like that," John said. "What are you talking about, kill-switch?"

James opened his mouth to respond, but Jarvis beat him to it. "Sergeant, may I remind you that the last time you spoke of this, you had a seizure?"

John sat upright. "Okay, seriously? Define 'kill-switch'."

"Not in the sense you are imagining," Jarvis said. "From what has been demonstrated earlier today, the danger is to a fatal increase in Sgt. Barnes' brain activity, not to any external murderous impulses."

"Thanks, Jarvis," James muttered.

"I am endeavouring to help," Jarvis said.

"Jesus Christ," John said under his breath. "That's it, I need you to come in."

James glared at his commanding officer. "I'm fine," he said with feeling. "Do you think they'd have left me alone if I wasn't?"

John appeared far from convinced. "Dr. Lam was none too happy that you haven't been for a follow-up, especially after your little one-man army trick in Stark Tower. If you've been having things happening with your head and you don't get that looked at, we're both going to be on her shit list for good."

"Sergeant Dhillon said I was fine," James reminded John. "He looked at my brain and everything."

John rubbed his hand across his face. "Does Natasha know about this?" he asked, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

"She was there when it happened." James kept his voice level as the memory of the pain gripped at him, almost a physical thing.

John stared at James for a long moment. "I'll be on the East Coast in a couple days," he said eventually. "That's one of the reasons I called you today. I need you to come to the SGC for a few days, to talk to the doctors. I was going to pick you up when I'm on the way back to Colorado."

A sliver of ice ran down James' spine as instinct kicked in. During this time as the Winter Soldier, over a decade of being at the mercy of doctors and scientists… he wasn't going to let that happen to him again. But he kept his face expressionless as he stared at John on the monitors. "I already told you, I'm fine."

"Like hell you are," John objected. "You need to come in for a medical and get yourself cleared for active duty."

"Active duty?" James repeated, his voice going up in surprise. "Is that some kind of joke?"

"Of course not!" John retorted.

"What the hell are you talking about? How are you going to put some damned cripple back on the front line?"

 "I told you before," John said with exasperation. "Homeworld Security and Stargate Command can use a guy with your background and expertise."

"With only one arm?"

Pursing his lips, John said, "All that stuff you've been doing the past week, that's made a difference, a big one. Area 51 is more secure, we're beefing up security around our outposts, and do I need to mention where you took down a pack of bad guys who were using Goa'uld technology to break into Stark Tower?"

James clenched his jaw, holding in everything he wanted to say. If he started talking now, he might not be able to stop. And losing control like that was unacceptable to a man who had once been the Winter Soldier.

The thing was, he did not necessarily have to follow John Sheppard's orders. He could pack himself up and disappear, build himself a new identity somewhere else, start over.

He could disappear so completely that Stargate Command and SHIELD would never find him. All he could have to give up was Natalia.

And even with that, if he hadn't known about aliens and Stargates and all the threats to people on Earth and out there in the universe, he might have been able to walk away.

But damn it, James Barnes had spent his entire life trying to protect people. Even with one only one arm, and a brain that might turn to mincemeat at any given moment, James knew that he could never walk away. Not when he could do something to protect the people he cared about. Like Natalia. Like Steve.

John, who had been silent for a time, cleared his throat. "Look, I've been where you are," he started to say. James reared back, ready to tell Sheppard to go fuck himself because _no he had **not**_ , but John just kept talking. "About this time last year, I got captured by the Wraith." He said _Wraith_ like James said _Hydra_ , all these years later. "And since the Wraith don't really take prisoners, everyone assumed I was dead. No one was looking for me." John looked down at his hands. "Only the Wraith wanted for something very specific, and they thought I could give it to them."

"What?"

"They wanted Earth." John pressed his hands flat on the desk. "Thing is, access to their food supply in the Pegasus Galaxy was getting a bit… problematic. They thought Earth might be easier pickings."

"What do they eat?" James asked. He didn't know anything about aliens, but what kind of food would an alien race from another galaxy hope to find on Earth?

"People," John said bluntly. "The Wraith eat people."

James blinked at John, waiting for the man to crack, to admit he was joking, but John just stared back at James. "People," James repeated after a minute. "You mean they eat meat?"

"Not meat. People," John confirmed. "And since Earth has over seven billion human beings, the Wraith thought they'd drop by, have some dinner, rule over us as despotic overlords, the usual."

James' brain was stuck on the _eating people_ part. He'd heard stories of people driven to cannibalism during famine and war's winter months, but why would an alien race eat humans? He shook his head and put the thoughts away for now. John was still talking.

"The Wraith wanted me to give them the coordinates to Earth, and I'd say no, then they'd torture me and we'd do it all over again." John's face was blank. "I ended up giving them coordinates to an old staging area, where Jaffa motherships and our warships got together for training exercises sometimes."

James watched John closely. This wasn't the kind of story he would expect from a man who still wore the uniform. There had to be something John had left out, something big. "What happened at the staging area?"

"The Wraith ship jumped out of hyperspace right into the middle of a massive war game exercise," John said. "A huge deal. Been planned for months."

"I bet that made things interesting." James said.

"It solved the problem at hand." John's expression was flat, his eyes empty of all emotion. "Wraith Hive ships can cause a lot of damage, but so can two Earth warships and four Jaffa motherships."

"Were you on the Wraith ship?"

"Yeah," John said. "Carter pulled me out with the transporters just before the Hive ship blew to smithereens, like we got you out of Texas." He shook his head. "My point is, I've been knocked down a few pegs in my time. But I've seen your record, both your records. I'm laying odds that you wouldn't pass up the opportunity to do some good in the world." He smiled suddenly, sharp and hard. "Maybe help us take apart some of the things that Isis did to this world."

James held up his right hand. "And you think I can do that single-handed?"

John's smile widened. "Yeah, I do," he said simply. "And I think you do, too." He reached forward for something just off-camera. "I'll see you in a couple of days, Barnes. Pack your skivvies."

"Yes, sir."

John rolled his eyes, and the screen went dead.

James sat where he was, reviewing what had occurred during the conversation. After a few moments, he stood. "You can kill the screens, Jarvis."

The terminals hovering mid-air vanished. "Would you like me to set up a workstation elsewhere in the Tower?" Jarvis asked.

"No. I need a minute."

"As you wish."

Still thinking, James made his way over to the elevator and pressed the button for the ballroom floor. He wondered if Natalia knew that her son had been taken by the enemy, tortured for information. He wondered what else had happened to the boy, between John getting out of the Wraith ship and being assigned to Homeworld Security.

As the elevator door opened, James' thoughts went back to the Wraith. They ate people, John had said. As the Wraith were aliens, James could understand if they ate humans sometimes, like a shark or a bear might eat a person. But why go through all the trouble of flying to another galaxy to look for more people to eat when they could just as easily eat something else? And how could John say they ate people, but not meat? That didn't make any sense.

He would have to ask someone about all this alien technology that let people fly spaceships, he told himself as he slipped into the deserted ballroom, making his way over to the piano. If the military had technology like that, what other things could they do? John had mentioned weapons, and that made sense. But what about other things, like on the American science fiction shows he had seen in passing while on missions in the seventies and eighties.

He sat at the piano bench and willed himself to calm down. He sometimes found it easier to think while his body was occupied with rote physical activity, and it had been too long since he spent time working on his dexterity.

James lifted the keyboard lid, and played an ascending scale. The notes were warm and true in the empty ballroom.

Casting his mind back, James began to play one of the training pieces designed to increase his metal hand's responsiveness, the same melody played by both hands, octaves apart. Now the tune was incomplete, but it was burned into his hand's muscle memory and he didn't have to think about it all.

Over and over, he played the complicated melody as his mind drifted back to his conversation with John.

He didn't know how long John had been on the Wraith ship, but the way John had described the pre-arranged war games at the staging area made him think that the timing of the Wraith ship's arrival hadn't been an accident. If John had known he needed to hold out until just the right time, in order to convince the Wraith to fly into the middle of an ambush… it would take a hell of a nerve to make that happen, to hold out, to stand the torture until the time was right. James wondered how John had made his captors think he had broken under the torture, had made them believe they had won.

It would have been far easier for John to kill himself, to cut off the Wraith's access to information. James himself had once been in a situation where he was tortured, but it hadn't been for information, it was just for the pain. He'd wished himself dead more than once, but only because he couldn't find a way out.

(Steve.)

(Steve had been his way out, he remembered, the realization shocking his hand to stillness on the keys. Steve had found him lying on a table in… he didn't remember where. But it had been Hydra who tortured him, for what reason he did not remember.)

Grimly, James started the song again from the beginning. It hadn't been enough for John Sheppard to deny the Wraith their goal; he had made sure the enemy was completely and utterly destroyed.

James was starting to see why General Jack O'Neill would put a man like John Sheppard in a position of power with Homeworld Security. That level of determination and ruthlessness could be useful, if an outside enemy decided to put the Earth in their sights.

As James played the old melody faster and faster on the piano in the achingly empty ballroom, he wondered how much of the story John had edited in order to push James into trusting him.

After all, John Sheppard was the Black Widow's son. For people like them, words were just another weapon.

_to be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some math for part of this chapter, and since the start of Widow Maker, exactly 19 days have passed in-universe for this crew. This is interesting to me as I spent my annual leave last year this time writing the first six chapters of Widow Maker.
> 
> I love this story and yet can't wait to be finished it to wrap up the ending for these lovelies. And to write CA:TWS-compliant fic.

* * *

The light outside Stark Tower was beginning to fade when Natalia returned.

James, who had been trying to focus on the work assigned to him by John Sheppard, turned when he heard the apartment door open. Natalia slipped inside, holding a large paper bag with one hand.

James jumped up. "You should have told Jarvis to get me," he said, taking the bag's handles from her outstretched hand.

"It's fine," she said, shedding her jacket. Her movements seemed slower than usual, her gaze averted as she locked and bolted the door. "It was a long day."

"Are you sure that's all it is?" James asked, worry twisting up his stomach. She did not move as if she was hurt or threatened, but she was not acting normal. "Did something happen? Is Steve okay?"

Natalia finally looked up at him. She was tired, the corners of her eyes lined with stress and exhaustion. "Steve is fine," she said as she took the bag back from him. "He had more to do at SHIELD so I came back on my own."

James lifted his hand to her face, cupped her cheek. Natalia leaned into the touch, closing her eyes briefly as a smile graced her lips. James struggled to find words to express how he felt; how much he had missed her, how grateful he was that she had returned, but in the end the words didn't make sense in his head, so he was silent as Natalia carried the bag into the kitchen.

After taking a moment to save and close his work on the display terminals, James followed Natalia. She was unpacking small white boxes from the bag, laying them side by side on the countertop. "I picked up some dinner," she said unnecessarily, her back to him.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Well, I did." Natalia pulled two plates from the cupboard and started to dish out the food.

James edged around until he could see Natalia's face. Her expression was blank, concentrating on her task. "Is anything wrong?"

"No." She set the box on the counter and looked at him. "Yes."

"What is it?" James asked when she didn't continue.

She kept looking at him. "I don't know how to do this," she said after a long pause. "This whole... living together."

James shifted uneasily, wishing he could cross his arms over his chest so standing around wasn't so uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

Natalia went back to arranging the food on the plates. "Since I joined SHIELD, I've lived on my own. I think I've forgotten how to be around someone else."

James had the curious sensation of his heart being squeezed in his chest. For days, she'd been telling him that she wanted him to stay with her, and now this? Had something happened during the day to make her change her mind?

No, it might not be that. James tried to think past the noise in his head, to focus on the words she actually said. "Did you ever live with Barton?" he asked, surprised his voice sounded so normal.

"Not on down time." Natalia reached for another food container. "If we were on assignment, that was one thing, but we both need our own space. Sometimes he would sleep over at my place, but he had his own place too."

James stepped closer to her. She looked more than tired; she was exhausted. That made sense -- in the days since he arrived, she hadn't been sleeping much, certainly less than him. Had she been getting any sleep before that, on the Chicago mission, or during the whole mess with Isis?

James edged another few steps closer. He could reach out and touch her now, if he wanted, but the lingering suspicion that _he_ was the problem stilled his hand.

Natalia set the last container down and used a fork to push the food into neat arrangements on the plates. "We should eat," she said.

"Are you sure about that?" James asked. Natalia looked up sharply. He took a deep breath. "Would it be better if I took off? Got out of your space?"

"No," she replied immediately, then pressed her lips together, almost as if she was reconsidering.

"I could," he continued, even as part of his brain was screaming at him to stop, to stay here with Natalia. "Stark's got a thousand empty rooms in this building. There's got to be a closet I can bunk in."

The corner of Natalia's mouth twitched, either in annoyance or amusement, but at least she wasn't agreeing with him.

"There's this huge empty ballroom downstairs," James went on. "Big piano. Maybe Stark'll let me earn my keep by keeping that thing in tune."

"You don't need to earn your keep," Natalia said finally. She put her hand on his chest. "I want you here. With me."

James covered her hand with his, her fingers cool to the touch. "I don't want to be some kind of obligation."

Natalia stepped in, her body pressed to his. "I assure you, I do not feel obliged." Raising her head, she kissed him.

The feel of her body, of her lips, chased away the tendrils of apprehension in his head. He closed his eyes and let her kiss him, let her bite softly at his lower lip, soothing in the next moment with an all-too-brief touch of her tongue. She leaned back, and when James opened his eyes, Natalia was smiling again.

They settled at the table in the kitchen. Natalia asked James about his day, and he talked briefly about his conversation with John and some of the work the man had asked him to complete. He kept back the news that John was going to drag him to Colorado Springs in a few days; he didn't need Natalia stepping on his escape route, should he need one.

He didn't want to make Natalia have to choose between him and their son – James knew which one of them she would choose.

Natalia told him about her day at SHIELD's New York office with Steve, purportedly about the Chicago mission, and about the fallout of the attack on Stark Tower.

"Did they ask where the survivors are?" James asked, poking his fork at something green and leafy. At least when he was a kid, folks had the decency to cook the greens before they put them on your plate.

"They did."

The tone in Natalia's voice made him raise his eyebrows. "You get reprimanded or something?"

"No, we did not," Natalia said. She stared at her fork, halfway to her mouth. "And that is what feels wrong."  


James abandoned the green stuff and moved back to the grain with a funny name. "You think someone should have suspended you again?"

Natalia put her forkful in her mouth before shaking her head. "Everyone acts like the agreement with Stargate Command is a positive thing," she said after a minute. "But this, it is no partnership. John does what he does and doesn't ask SHIELD for anything; they in turn do not ask for what they should."

"Like what?"

"Intelligence, access to alien technology, everything they would need to protect the planet in case of another alien attack."

"Maybe they'll push that back to Homeworld Security?"

The look Natalia gave James was almost pitying. "Would you trust a military agency that hid all intelligence about space travel and alien enemies from you?"

James pushed his plate away. He'd only eaten half the food Natalia had laid out for him, but the raw greens and the strange grain wasn't appetizing. Maybe he'd make himself a sandwich later on. "According to Sheppard, I'm supposed to."

"But SHIELD would not." Natalia carried their plates to the counter. "And I do not understand why neither Steve nor I have been asked to gather intelligence on Stargate Command."

James leaned back in his chair. "You ever try asking Steve to do something dirty? He gives you this look, like you took away his ice cream cone and threw it in the dirt."

"There are a lot of dirty things for a soldier to do, in war."

James rubbed his hand over his face, the sudden rush of disjointed memories making his stomach churn. "He had me for that."

And there the memories were, vivid and in colour: James doing the dirty work so Steve wouldn't have to, so the other Howling Commandos didn't have to. James was the one who crawled through the dark to kill sentries while they were taking a piss, to take boots from a dead enemy when they were running out of footwear on their side. All those things Steve would have needed to grit his teeth to do, to make those kinds of calls... well, James had been making those decisions his whole life.

Steve was the kind of guy who would punch a guy until he was down. James was the one who would keep punching so he'd stay down.

Breathing out, James said, "Steve wouldn't gather intel on the military unless he thought they were dirty, and from what I've seen, Stargate Command's got some good men at the top."

"And women," Natalia added. "From hearing John speak of her, Colonel Samantha Carter saves the planet on a fairly frequent basis."

"See? That doesn't sound like the kind of gang that Steve would go turncoat on," James pointed out. "And we know why they won't ask you—"

Natalia turned. "Why not?" she interrupted. "SHIELD has had no qualms about testing my loyalty before now."

James joined Natalia at the counter. "Maybe even they know what lines should not be crossed," he said, kissing the top of Natalia's head. "Orders can be obeyed, but the stain remains."

Natalia shook her head as she looked up at James. "SHIELD has also not asked me about you," she said quietly, her hands resting on his hips. "It has been nineteen days since I told them that you were in New York, eleven since you came home to me, and they have asked nothing."

A quiet thrill ran up James' spine. That wasn't right, that wasn't _right._ An organization like SHIELD wouldn't give up on surveillance for an agent like the Winter Soldier. Regardless of what Natalia would tell them of his reformation, they would not let him wander around New York without eyes on him. "Does SHIELD have agents planted in Stark Tower?" James asked, his fingers tightening on Natalia's arm. "Is it someone who lives up here? Are they watching us?"

"James." Natalia pressed her palms to his waist to focus his attention. "No one here is reporting back on you, I swear to it."

But he couldn't take her word for it. Steve was smart enough and loyal enough to the memory of Bucky Barnes to keep his trap shut. Natalia would not spy on him, not with their history. That left Bruce Banner and Tony Stark, who lived in the tower where they could keep eyes on him. "What about Banner or Stark?"

"Bruce spent years on the run from SHIELD and the military after his accident," Natalia said. She reached up to touch his face. "Tony would not tell SHIELD anything. Neither will Pepper."

James put his hand over hers, held it to his face while he tried to even out his breathing. There was no one else in the top part of the tower to watch him. True, Clint Barton would come back one day, and regardless of the man's loyalty to Natalia, he would answer first to his masters at SHIELD. But Barton was currently on another planet, and no threat.

Natalia ran her fingers though his hair, a soothing gesture. James had the distant thought that he did not want to be placated, but the sensation made him close his eyes and lean into her touch.

"No one is reporting on you," Natalia whispered again.

James opened his eyes. "They should be."

Natalia slid her hand down to curl around the nape of his neck. "Yes," she said. "But no one here will."

They stood like that for a few minutes, in each other's personal space. James wondered what it would have been like if they were just normal people, living normal lives. He tried to picture Natalia in the role of a housewife, and in spite of himself he smiled.

"What?"  


"Thinking things."

Natalia drew away from him, giving his arm one last squeeze. "What sort of things?"

"You know." He watched her set about scraping the leftovers into a storage container. "If we were normal. What that would be like."

Natalia put the container in the fridge. "I think it would be boring," she said as she rummaged around deeper in the fridge. "Normal people do not fight aliens and save the world."

James shrugged. "There's something to be said for boring."

Natalia stood, a white paper box in her hands. "Do you know what I like about this life now?" she asked as she carried the container to the counter.

"What?"

Opening the box, Natalia pulled out the small chocolate cake she had purchased the previous day. "I help people." She stared down at the cake. "My life... I know what I have done in my life. I can't undo any of that. But at least now, I can do things that help."

"Is that enough?"

Shaking her head, Natalia pulled a long kitchen knife from the knife block. "It is something to hold on to."

She sliced two small slivers of cake, laid them neatly on small plates, and handed one to James. They settled back at the table, Natalia drawing her chair closer to James so she could put her feet up across his legs.

The cake was incredibly rich, the icing all chocolate and butter; the cake itself light on his tongue. He paused on the second bite to frown down at his plate.

"You don't like it."

"It's not that." He used his fork to crumble the cake. "It doesn't taste right."

Natalia licked icing off her thumb. "Is that something you are remembering?"

James laid his fork down. There was something in his mind, not a scene or sounds, but something murky and shapeless, just colours. "I think I was a kid," he said. He scooped up chocolate icing onto his finger and lifted it to his lips. "I had cake once. It didn't taste like this."

How old had he been? The memory was vague, but not splintered like most of his broken past. As he concentrated, he remembered that he had been kneeling in a chair, holding a toy. There was someone else there, someone wearing a flower-print dress. Was that his mother? She was very big; how young had he been?

Something else; someone sitting next to him, someone even smaller than he was. A baby with dark brown curls, reaching for the cake with a chubby hand, and he remembered, he _remembered_ now, how he had been angry because it was _his_ cake, the baby wasn't supposed to have any of his cake, but he had to share because _that's what big brothers do, Jimmy_.

The richness of the chocolate icing was suddenly too much. James went to the sink and drank two large cups of water, trying to get the cloying sweetness off his tongue. It took him a minute to compose himself. He refilled the cup again and carried it back to the table, as if that might fool Natalia into thinking that he was all right.

She looked at him.

James sat and stared at his small piece of cake. After a few minutes, Natalia pulled her chair around next to his and leaned against his right side, still not speaking.

"I had a sister," James said, unable to look at Natalia. "After our mother died... they sent her somewhere, I got the orphanage."

Natalia rested her hand on his back.

"I don't know her name," James went on, his hand balling up into a fist. "Why don't I remember her name?"

Natalia didn't say anything, didn't try to make it better, and gradually the ache of memory faded somewhat and he could breathe without that sharp pain in his head.

"I had a sister once," Natalia said suddenly. "Isis..." Natalia's hand moved restlessly on his back. "I went to see Isis before I left for Chicago. I told myself it was to make sure that Coulson was still okay, but..." Her voice trailed off.

They sat in silence for a while. James stared at the half-eaten slice of cake, feeling the rise and fall of Natalia's chest against his side as she breathed. The thought of Isis still made James' skin crawl, those staring eyes, hands moving restlessly those times they had met.

He would not think of having his arm ripped off. Not now. Not here.

"Isis said he could tell me what happened to my family," Natalia said. "I don't remember much from before I entered the Red Room, but I had a mother and a sister and a brother, and they went away and I never knew why."

"What happened?"

"I walked away." Natalia turned her head, resting her forehead against his neck. "I had to walk away, I couldn't let Isis win."

James put his arm around Natalia's shoulders, holding her close. Would he have been able to do the same? Walk away from the revelations of his own past? He didn't know if he could.

"My sister is probably dead now," Natalia continued. "That was a long time ago."

After another moment, Natalia sat back, moving out from under James' arm. Her face was composed, but James was keenly aware of those things she had lost, things James himself kept reminding her of. Her family, her daughter... all people James had never known, yet he was the one who had brought these memories of grief back to Natalia.

"Do you want any more cake?" she asked, getting to her feet. When James shook his head, Natalia cleared the table, set the cake box back in the fridge, and turned on the kettle.

"Why did you get that?" James asked, watching Natalia take the tea things out of the cupboard.

"The cake? I thought it would be a fun treat," she said. "I didn't have sweets often as a child."

James thought back to Department X, and their careful emphasis on bland, optimal nutrition. There had been no room for sweets on those dinner trays. "Did Sheppard...." What was the man's first name? "Patrick, did he like cake?"

"I think so." Natalia pushed her hair over her shoulder, her gaze distant. "He used to tease me about my baking before we were married. Afterwards... the house had a cook, so I didn't have to focus on that."

Natalia had been on her undercover mission in New England in 1967, marrying Patrick Sheppard in 1968. James had found her there in the fall of 1969, and events had transpired in such a way that Natalia had become pregnant after their assignation.

James remembered that the leaves had been falling from the tall trees, as he watched Natalia from the woods around the house.

"But I used to bake with Johnny," Natalia was saying. "He liked to lick whatever spoon I was using to stir." A faint smile drifted onto her lips. "There was one time, he was only a year old, I was helping the cook make some dessert for one of Patrick's mother's horrible teas, and I put the baby down on the counter and not a moment later he had upended the cake batter bowl all over his front."

James winced, struck by the memory of a hard slap across his face for just such a thing. "What happened?"

Natalia's smile grew. "John was sitting there with batter everywhere, and he kept licking his hands clean and reaching for more. He only started crying when I put him in the sink to wash him off."

She was still smiling, which James supposed was a good sign, but there was something itching at the back of his head, something lingering from what she had said when she'd come home. "But, um, he was okay, right?"

"Of course, it was only cake batter."

"No, not John. I mean..." What _was_ the man's name? Why did it keep sliding out of James' head? "Patrick. He didn't beat you or the boy?"

The smile on Natalia's face slid away. "No, he didn't." She poured boiling water into the teapot. "Patrick was a good man. Distant, but good."

There was a lump in James' throat and he didn't know why. "Oh," he said, his voice cracking on the word.

Natalia carried the teapot to the table, then moved to stand beside James. "Hey," she said quietly, pulling on his sleeve until he turned to look at her. "Patrick Sheppard was a nice man," she said as she put her hands around the back of his neck. "But he was my mission. Do you understand?"

He did, sort of, knowing what needed to be done, and steeling oneself to do it. No matter the hardship or pain; all that mattered was the mission.

"And me?" he asked, not wanting to know but unable to _not know_. "Have I ever been your mission?"

Natalia stroked his hair, her fingers playing along the curve of his ear. It took her a minute to pull together her response. "A few times," she said, and with that James' stomach lurched. He hadn't wanted to know this, but it was too late to pull the words back. "One time, you did not know me. They had wiped your mind too thoroughly; you were not _you_ any longer. They sent me in after you to try to stop you."

That sounded vaguely familiar to James. He clutched at the memory, of Natalia's voice saying nearly the same thing, only in Russian. It was tied in with the idea of a stroke... yes, that was it. His handlers told him that he'd had a stroke, but Natalia had told him the truth. "I tried to kill you."

Natalia shook her head. "You did not. When you saw me, you stopped." She ran her thumb over his cheek. "It gave me enough time to drug you."

"What about the other times?" James asked. "What about when..." He stopped, drawing away from her touch. "The first time we... when we were together. That was on orders."

Natalia was looking at him very intently. "We both had our orders that night."

"But—"

"That was a long time ago," Natalia interrupted. "What's important is what we have now." She put her hand on James' shoulder as she went to the cupboard.

James rubbed at his temples, wishing the low-lying headache he'd carried with him all day would go away. "And you're okay with that?"

Natalia carried two mugs to the table and poured out the tea. "There was a long time that you were dead, to me," she said, pushing a mug in front of James. "I had a long time to sort through things then. About what was important and what wasn't."

James watched the steam rising from his tea as Natalia slipped back into her chair. "It hasn't even been a year, for me. Since Romania."

"A lot has happened in that time," Natalia said. "I joined SHIELD, I have gotten to know John again..." She tapped on the handle of her cup, thoughtful. "I spent a long time trying to figure out who I am."

James picked up his cup and slurped at the hot liquid. "How long did that take you?"

Natalia looked at her hands. "You make it sound as if I've figured it all out."

There she was, that exhaustion coming back into her voice. "Maybe I'm jealous, is all," he said. He pushed his chair back. "I know we talked before about you being okay with me being around." She glanced up sharply at this. "But maybe, sometimes, I could give you some space."

"How?"

"Maybe I could clear out, go to the gym for a while." He had been searching for a reason to leave her alone for a bit, but as soon as he said the words, he was reminded that he had barely moved that day, outside of his seizure earlier that morning. Sitting on his ass in Stark's expensive penthouse wasn't exertion in any sense of the word. "Unless you want me to do the dishes."

Natalia slumped in her chair. "If that's what you want to do," she said carefully. "I am not asking you to leave."

James got to his feet. "It's not even nine. I can't sleep for a few hours anyway."

"You can come back whenever you like," Natalia said, staying seated.

James gave a nod, not sure if that required an acknowledgement or not. "I'll probably be down there for a couple of hours," he said. That would give her enough time to herself, right? "Maybe let Jarvis know if you're going to bed, so I won't wake you up."

At this, she raised her eyebrow. "The last time you tried to sneak into my bed when I was asleep, I nearly broke your neck," she reminded him.

Good point. "So I'll know to knock," he said, making himself smile with a levity he did not feel. Taking a few steps around the table, he kissed Natalia on the cheek. She smiled after him as he left the kitchen, making for the bedroom and his workout clothes.

Changing his clothes as quickly as one hand would allow, James wondered if his idea to give Natalia space was enough. If she had spent over a decade on her own, would two hours be enough for her to clear her head? If that was what she even wanted.

He stared down at his running shoes, wondering. Natalia had told him on several occasions that she knew her own mind, and if she wanted something she would ask for it.

She had also told him, on more than one occasion, that she wanted James with her.

Taking a deep breath, James began the frustrating exercise in lacing and tying his shoelaces one-handed.

For now, all James could do was to accept Natalia's word that she was telling him the truth, that she wanted him, even in the state of physical ruin that he was.

* * *

To James' annoyance, the gym was not empty.

Steve was hurling punches at the oversize punching bag. He had obviously been at it for some time, as his grey t-shirt was soaked with sweat. His back was to the door, which James thought was unlike Steve (even if he didn't know _why_ ) and he didn't make any sign he knew he had company, even though James knew his reflection in the far mirrors would be visible to Steve.

Jarvis had probably told Steve that James was coming to the gym, and the man was deciding to play it cool.

Inwardly, James cursed Jarvis for not telling him that Steve was already in the gym, but he couldn't exactly leave now, not even with the excuse of wanting to use the indoor track. That would be too much like cowardice.

"Hey," he said.

Steve didn't look around, never so much as paused in his punching. "Hey."

"You want me to buzz off?"

" 'Course not."

James frowned. It wasn't like Steve to be so close-lipped. Keeping an eye on the man, James headed over to his favourite treadmill. It let James put his left side to the wall, away from prying eyes, even on the days he was alone in the gym.

His hand hovered over the touch-pad. Part of him wanted to set up a good pace, to show Steve that he wasn't some one-armed weakling, but the common-sense side of his brain reminded him that he had just eaten, and vomiting from overexertion was no way to prove that one was doing better.

Before he could spend more time over-thinking things, James keyed in his usual warm-up routine and started running.

The monotony of running in place, especially at a speed he could keep up for hours, let James' mind wander to the one place it should not. The little girl from his nightmares kept popping into his mind, with her dirty red hair, her faded dress with berry stains on the front. She still had her baby teeth, James remembered, and the memory came with a stab of pain through his head.

James slapped the touchpad, slowing the treadmill's speed to a walk. "Jarvis, open all monitoring screens," he said, breathing his way through the sudden agony.

Jarvis complied, pulling up all screens where James had left them earlier in the day. Blinking to clear his vision, James set the screens to scroll, then turned the treadmill back up to a run.

Reading the quickly scrolling text in several different languages, all while not falling off the treadmill, was enough to hold James' focus. After a while, the pain in his head faded back to a dull ache.

Even with his concentration on the screens, James almost missed it. A small thing, really, a post about the availability of engagement rings in Angola, but that was odd enough that James touched the display to freeze the screen.

It was easy enough to follow the threads from there. The poster tied back through to several of James' previous searches, never leading the conversation but always there. James stopped the treadmill after a minute so he could better focus on the information.

All told, it took him less than fifteen minutes to gather the data into one cohesive dossier. Whatever was going to happen would probably go down before the end of the week, and was likely as not include the diamond mines along Namibia's south-eastern borders.

"Fuck."

"Is there anything you require?" Jarvis asked. Across the room, the sounds of punching ceased.

"How about a team of twenty men and a flight to Namibia?"

"Mr. Stark can coordinate the flight," Jarvis said. "However, Stark security personnel are not currently compensated for the level of activity I suspect you are planning for."

"What's up?" Steve asked, coming over to the treadmills.

James glowered at the displays. "Someone's holding a party and I ain't invited."

Steve hopped up onto the treadmill beside James, glancing at the display. "You want me to go suit up so's we can crash in?"

"Nah." James pushed his hair back from his forehead. He was beginning to get used to the shortness of the cut. "Jarvis, do me a favour?"

"Of course."

"Can you package this up and send it off to Sheppard? Maybe he can find someone to do something about it."

One by one, the display screens began to minimize and slide into a holographic envelope. "Shall I include a message as well?" Jarvis asked.

"How about, something to keep you busy while I'm working on other stuff?"

The flap on the holographic envelope folded closed, and the display winked out. "Message sent," Jarvis said. "I shall inform you if there is any reply."

Satisfied, James reached out to start the treadmill once more. He knew Steve was staring at him, huge arms crossed over his chest like he had something to say, but James didn't feel like making things easy on Steve.

"You sure it's a good idea to be lipping off to your C.O.?" Steve asked.

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Yeah, it is." There was slight frown on Steve's face. "I'm not sure it's smart, even if he's Natasha's son."

James hit the stop button on the treadmill, and waited until the belt had stilled under his feet before saying, "Is that what you think this is?"

Steve clenched his jaw. "I don't want you getting in trouble."

"That's rich," James said shortly. "Fine. Hey Jarvis, can you send another note to Sheppard?"

"Of course."

"Tell him, let me know if you need any more information, _sir_."

"Message sent," Jarvis murmured.

"Better?" James snapped.

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line. "I was being serious about you not getting in trouble.  


"That's my lookout." James turned the treadmill back on for the umpteenth time. "Why are you still here, that bag isn't gonna punch itself."

James was running flat out by this time. Steve said nothing as he climbed down from the other treadmill and went back over to the punching bag.

James kept running. It was just as well he hadn't eaten much of the weird food Natalia put in front of him; he was running hard enough that a full belly would have made him puke.

Whatever. He wasn't weak, and he wasn't stupid, no matter what Steve might think. He knew when to keep his head down, and when he could use a bit of lip to misdirect people. He had been out of stasis for months now, and he had been figuring out who he was, what kind of man he might be. Steve didn't know anything about James Barnes.

James ran until his legs were buckling, his lungs burning and exhaustion was churning in his gut. He kept running for another minute, to prove that he could, then slapped at the touchpad to slow the belt down to a walk. There. He'd done it.

Steve was still across the room, punching at the big bag. James walked, letting his body slow down, his heart rate normalize, his lungs recover. He was doing better, so much better than he had been when he first arrived on Natalia's doorstep. He had his balance now, could walk and run and move without falling into the old patterns of his metal arm. It wasn't much, but it was something.

With his sweat-soaked t-shirt cooling on his back, James stepped down from the treadmill. He had another hour to go before Natalia would expect him back. He should probably give his legs a rest, if he wanted to get to sleep without them cramping up on him. Wiping his forehead with his empty left sleeve, James made his way over to the dumbbell rack.

He'd tried to use the barbells to lift earlier in the week, but without his other arm to balance the weight, he'd nearly dislocated his shoulder when the bar tilted suddenly to one side. Far safer on shoulder (and his dignity) to stick with equipment made for one hand.

Laying back on the bench, James did a simple chest press for a while, alternating with an over-the-head tricep press. During the ten years he'd had the metal arm, he hadn't been able to stop from overcompensating while lifting. Relearning how to use only one arm was annoying and humbling as he realised how weak he was.

Well, not _weak_ , he thought as he went back to the chest-press with the fifty-pound weight. He was stronger than he had been as a kid in Brooklyn, had been even in the first part of the war. Something had been done to him, something more than the metal arm. He healed faster than normal people, had more stamina, clearer sight than anyone he'd met.

Anyone except for Natalia and Steve. He knew what had been done to Steve, and he'd heard rumours about what Natalia had been subjected to as a child.

He just had no memories of what they had been done to _him_.

Across the gym floor, Steve had given the bag one last punch before stepping away to unwrap his hands. James could see out of the corner of his eye that Steve was sweating and breathing hard.

It was good to know that even super soldiers lost their breath sometimes.

Steve threw his hand wrappings on top of his towel by the wall, and came over to where James was finishing his set. "You going to be around much longer?" Steve asked.

James lowered the weight to his chest, rolled to set it on the ground in a smooth motion, then sat up. "If I'm in your way, say it."

"You're not in my way," Steve protested. "Why do you have to make everything a fight?"

"I'm not," James bit off. "You're the one who keeps getting up in my business."

Steve stared. "Is this about Sheppard?" he asked. "I was trying to help!"

"What do you know about it?" James rolled his shoulders, trying to alleviate some of the stress on his lower back. "Did Natasha tell you something about him?"

"No, I was just..." Steve threw his hands up in frustration. "I was trying to help you, all right?"

"Don't bother," James said. He swung his leg over the bench; he was done here, he may as well get out of Steve's way. "Everything's fine."

Steve's eyes widened in disbelief. "You had a seizure this morning and with everything else...." He gestured at James' left side. "You can't say that you're okay!"

"Hey, fuck you, Rogers," James exclaimed. He stood, far enough away from Steve that he didn't have to tilt his head back too far to look the man in the eye. "I'm okay if I say I'm okay."

"All right, fine."

But James wasn't done. "Says the man who went to work with pneumonia in the winter of '38."

"I said all right!"

"Coughed yourself to sleep for three weeks and still up every morning saying you were just fine," James went on.

Steve glared at James. "Would you shut up about it?"

"Whatever." James made his way over to the mats. "How you ever fooled those military press reporters into thinking you were some apple-pie momma's boy is beyond me."

"I never even spoke to most of those guys," Steve said, the fight going out of him. "It was propaganda, it wasn't real."

"Probably just as well," James said, plunking his ass on the mat. He kicked off his shoes and socks, then pressed his bare toes against the wall. "Wouldn't want those impressionable kids back home thinking that Captain America swore like a dockworker."

Steve let out his breath in a huff. "That wasn't even two years ago for me," he said as he sat down at one of the machines with the plates and bars and levers. "Do you remember some of that stuff?" He couldn't keep the hopeful edge out of his voice.

James shrugged. "Bits, you know. Still not a lot." He leaned back to start his sit-ups, counting under his breath. His muscles still hurt along his left side, the lingering pain from where the muscles had torn when Isis ripped his arm off. But James welcomed the pain. At least it meant the muscles were functioning.

He had been looking at himself in the mirror when he was alone, noting how he was losing muscle mass on his left side. With no shoulder joint for the chest muscles to attach to, there was nothing for the muscles to work against. It was more pronounced in his upper body, especially contrasting with the muscle tone on his right side.

But those observations were private. With a shirt on, no one could see his body wasting away.

He had been counting with every sit up, concentrating on keeping his back straight and not leaning into his right side, and so he had missed the start of Steve's bench pressing. When he heard the first clink of the metal plates, he glanced over, to see Steve lifting what had to be a quarter ton of weight.

"Now you're showing off," James called, never breaking from his sit-ups.

"Am not." But there was something in his voice that reminded James of the old days, just a hint of Rogers' pride showing through. And why not, James wondered. He hadn't been all that strong as a kid, and his curved spine and asthma had made strength training out of the question as they got older.

James let out a snort. "Captain Show-off, then."

Steve let out a breath and concentrated on his biceps, leaving James to work on his abs. Even so, Steve was done before James had completed his set, and the tall blond man bounced to his feet and came over to where James sat. "You need help with anything?" Steve asked, hovering as James finished his last crunch.

"I lost my arm, not my marbles," James said, lying back on the floor. "I can figure it all out."

Steve dropped to the floor, sitting with his legs crossed beside James. He waited, thoughtful and watching, as James pulled himself up, his torso aching with the exertion of the evening.

At least he'd get a good night's sleep after all this activity. "What's that look for?" James asked when he was upright. "You got that face."

"What face?"

"Like you got something to say," James pointed out. "Or else you started a fight with the neighbour kids and you need a hand in getting your ass kicked."

Steve didn't try to deny it, which made James a little uneasy. "It's good, us being at the gym together."

The earnestness in Steve's voice compounded James' unease. "Yeah, I guess it's fun."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze falling to James' empty left sleeve. "I just..."

James said nothing.

Steve took a breath and tried again. "I've been thinking a lot about what happened in Texas."

James had not been expecting this. Still, he kept still, his back straight. "Natalia said you were there."

Steve looked at him sharply. "You don't remember?"

"I'd just had my arm ripped off and I was dying from blood loss, give me a break."

"Jesus," Steve said, wincing at James' words, but soldiering on. "It was like I was going to watch you die all over again, and I couldn't do anything to stop it. If I'd caught you on that train—"

"Shut the fuck up," James interrupted, his blood suddenly boiling at Steve's words. The man was such an _idiot_ , didn't he understand there was no goddamn point in focusing on the past? They couldn't change anything, not any of it, and thinking about it was pointless. "If you'd caught me, then what? Who's to say I wouldn't've died the next day? Or any of the days after that?"

"We'd have made it, together—"  


"To come back to what?" James voice was rising, but he couldn't help it, not when Steve was being so _stupid_. "Fanfare and an army pension?" He jumped to his feet, hardly noticing that his balance was still holding on tired legs. "Fuck all of your _coulda-beens_ , Rogers, and let me tell you what did happen when you didn't catch me on that train."

Steve had gone pale, his hands clenched into fists, but James was sick of Steve, of the man being able to play this game of make-believe.

"Whatever the Russians did to me, or why, I met Natasha, okay? I trained her and she was great, she was _amazing_ , and whatever else happened, she was smart enough and strong enough that when those aliens came through the sky last year, she was there to save the world, all right? The whole fucking world!"

Steve was shaking his head. "There could have been another way—"

"Well, there wasn't!" James' chest ached now, with too little air and too much exertion and the remembered press of water in his lungs, his head aching sharp as a little girl screamed up on the river bank and _no he could not think about that_. "You can think about that shit all you want, but I gotta live with what happened, so fuck you and all your make-believe bullshit."

He turned on his heel and stalked across the gym, to the water cooler with little cups hanging above it on the wall. With movements bleeding out his anger, James yanked one of the cups off the wall, filled it with water, and knocked it back. The chill of water helped cool the anger burning in his chest.

Another drink, and James headed back across the room, still holding the half-full cup. Steve hadn't moved from the mat, still sitting there glaring at James.

James lifted the cup. "Where does this go?" he asked, voice nearly normal.

Steve blinked at him. "I take them back to my place and clean them," he said, subdued.

James sank back onto the mat, holding the little cup in his hand. "We're one hell of a pair."

"Yeah, well, why would seventy years on ice change that?"

"Sixty for me," James said. "But yeah." He drank the rest of the water, then tossed the little cup over to the mat near his shoes. "It's late, shouldn't you be heading off?"

"Where am I going to be?" Steve asked. "I should be asking you that."

James shrugged his shoulder. "Natasha's getting stuff done without me being underfoot." He thought about the conversation he'd had with Steve the day before, about meeting people who wouldn't see beyond the shield to see the man. "So if you don't see people or date or anything, what do you do?"

"Bit of this, bit of that," Steve said. "When I woke up out of the ice, I did the things people said I should. Got an apartment, went to the gym, saved the world from aliens, checked out some museums."

The deadpan delivery was pure Steve Rogers, and the substance was familiar even without specific memories to tie it to. "Hanging out with anyone?" James asked.

He'd hoped that the question would bring more sarcasm or teasing. He was not expecting Steve's expression to close off. "Everyone's dead, or old enough to have forgotten everything," Steve said. He pressed his left hand against his leg. "Or else it's SHIELD and to them I'm still a soldier." He worried at the seam with his fingernails, not meeting James' eyes. "Still, I guess things are all right. I hang out with Clint and Bruce and Thor, when he's around, and Tony's always a character. Natasha's nice and we work together."

Sitting there, with Steve practically exuding lonely solitude, James was stuck with a sudden idea. "You want to come to dinner with me and Natalia sometime?"

"What?"

"You know, dinner. Food. Talking about stuff."

Steve looked at James for a long moment. "Yeah, that would be great," he said. "But... why?"

James pulled his leg up to his chest and rested his elbow on his knee. There was a memory scratching at the back of his head, something hard and sharp, likely brought on from the extended time in Steve's presence. "Remember, I think it was in late '39, when you were making eyes at that brunette who worked at the telephone exchange?"

Steve frowned at James. "Are you talking about Sally Potts? What about it?"

"See, time was, I got to thinking if you and she got married—"

"What?" Steve exclaimed. "I never even asked her out!"

"Shut up, punk, I'm older than you now so you gotta listen to me." James sat up straight, stretching his back. "Where was I?"

With a sigh, Steve said, "I was getting married to Sally?"

"Right. So I figured that you'd get married and after a few years I'd be that obnoxious friend who came over for Sunday dinners and all I'd want to talk about was how great life had been when we were kids."

"Life was shit when we were kids," Steve pointed out. "They didn't call it the Depression because life was all sunshine."

"You're missing my point."

"Which is what?" Steve demanded. "That you're feeling sorry for me so you ask me over for dinner?"

"No," James said with vehemence. The memories in his head weren't coming out right, and what he was thinking wasn't making its way into words that made sense. "It's that we were friends back then, and I guess we still are."

Only that wasn't what he meant. The rest of the memory was coming back now. James hadn't wanted to give Steve up to anyone else, hadn't wanted to lose his best friend. He'd have done anything to keep Steve in his life, but if the War hadn't happened, he'd have lost Steve anyway, because Steve was a great guy and one day he'd have found a girl who saw that, and a girl that smart would have seen right through James Barnes.

But Steve knew none of this, and if James had his way he never would.

"Do you think Natalia would mind?" Steve was asking.

"Can't see why she would. She always makes enough food for four."

"Sure," Steve said. He was smiling now, a small happy smile that made James want to smile too. "When?"

"Maybe... Oh shit." In the weirdness of the evening, he'd forgotten that John Sheppard was coming to fetch him back to Stargate Command in a few days.

"What?"

"Sheppard's got me on recall this week," James explained, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "He seems to think the military docs want to make sure my stitching hasn't come undone or something."

"How long are you going to be gone for?"

"I don't know, maybe a few days." Or longer, James thought gloomily, if they kept him under the mountain doing their tests and experiments, all in the name of getting him back on active duty. Whatever that meant.

Steve didn't think it strange that James had to report in at base. "When you're back, then?"

"Yeah."

Steve held out his hand, and after a moment's consideration, James took it. Steve stood and half-hauled James to his feet. "Sure is weird, this future we're in," Steve said.

"I know." James pushed the hair back off his forehead, the drying sweat cooling on his forehead. "Where's my flying car?"

"At least the food's better," Steve said. "Plus no polio."

"The water tastes better too," James said, chancing a half-smile at Steve. The other man beamed back at him, just like Steve used to do when they were kids, when they were young men, before all this.

From the far side of the room, a hint of movement turned James' head. Natalia stood by the wall, watching them. When she saw that she had his attention, she said, "Have you two finished wiping the floor with each other?"

"We weren't fighting," Steve protested.

Natalia raised her eyebrow. "That would be a first," she said dryly.

"Did you get your things done?" James asked.

"I did," Natalia replied, stepping lightly into the room on bare feet.

Steve looked at Natalia, then at James, and went to pick up his towel. "I'm going to let you two get on with things."

"Good night, Steve," Natalia said.

With one last look at James, Steve disappeared around the corner.

Natalia turned her head to James. "Are you okay?" she asked.

James nodded. "We had a good talk, me and Steve."

"Good." Natalia unzipped her hoodie and tossed it to the ground beside James' shoes. Beneath the hoodie, she wore close-fitting work-out clothes. "I thought we could resume your hand-to-hand training."

Natalia walked onto the mats with a contained strength and grace. She moved like a predator, and James was simultaneously wary and aroused. "How do you propose we do that?" he asked, backing around to keep her in view. His body was already responding to the situation; the tension in his limbs loosening in anticipation of attack, his attention focusing on Natalia's every motion.

"Your balance is fine when you're doing solitary activity," Natalia pointed out. "You need to become accustomed to your new balance in a fight." She made no move towards him. Not yet.

"If you're going to kick my ass, I guess it's good that you fed me rabbit food tonight."

"That was kale and quinoa," Natalia informed him. "It is very healthy."

"For rabbits."

Natalia's mouth curved up into an anticipatory smile a moment before she lunged at him. He was bigger than she was, but her smaller mass let her move with lightning-speed as she stepped to the side and hurled him over her shoulder.

His instinct was to soften his landing with his left arm, like he always did when his right was in a hold, but that arm was gone and he landed hard, the air knocked out of him. Before he could catch his breath, Natalia was on him, straddling his hips with her hands on his chest.

"You're falling wrong."

"I'm sapped for energy," James said, drawing in air. "I need more red meat in my diet." On the last word, he rolled them, pinning Natalia underneath him.

She was small, a mix of softness and steel that was reassuringly solid under him. He held her there, savouring the sensation. "If I kiss you, are you going to head-butt me?"

Her eyebrow arched. "Probably not."

"Don't break my nose." He gave her another moment, then leaned down and kissed her gently.

She raised her head to press into the kiss, then pulled away and licked the tip of his nose. He jerked back, startled, and in that moment Natalia rolled out from under him. "We need to work on your falls," she said, hauling James to his feet. "If someone's got your arm in a hold we need to figure out a way for you to bleed off the momentum."

"Sure thing." James shook out the tension in his back. "Say, I invited Steve over for dinner one night."

That got her attention. "Why?"

"I don't know. He doesn't seem like he has folks to be around, you know?"

Natalia's expression was inscrutable, but she said, "We can have dinner with Steve, but we're going to a restaurant."

"Why?"

"Because I am selective about who I cook for. Now," and she raised her hands. "Again."

She then proceeded to wipe the floor with him in a thorough fashion.

After a while, James started to notice a change in his reactions. As he gained confidence in his balance, his body's reactions became automatic, ingrained. It probably helped that he was physically exhausted and so wasn't thinking too hard about Natalia's tactics.

When it was obvious that he was able to match her attacks, Natalia changed her approach; throws that were more difficult to get out of, attacks where she could twist up into the air and use her momentum to ride James to the ground.

Even though he was getting his ass kicked, he didn't mind; the lesson was a useful one, and being pressed to the mats by Natalia's body was not objectionable.

After a while, he began to gain the upper hand, either because of his size and dexterity, or else Natalia was letting him win, letting him trap her against the mats.

He usually ended up on top of Natalia, his hips pressed against Natalia's thighs or against her behind when she was on her stomach. He wasn't sure he could trust his memory, but Natalia seemed to be wriggling more than he recalled from their previous sparing sessions.

And it wasn't only his mind that noticed the squirming. The firm curve of her ass against his groin was causing things to stir in ways they hadn't in weeks.

James normally didn't get erections in a fight; physical violence didn't turn him on, but this was a different sort of thing. This was Natalia, and she smelled really good and her hands were secure on his body and she smiled at him as she threw him all over the mats.

During one particularly tricky hold, with Natalia's thighs wrapped around his head, James spun twice before dropping to his back in an attempt to throw Natalia off. She rode him down, then spun up and around so she had him pinned. Before he could say anything, she pressed down on him, her hips grinding deliciously against his dick, and she lowered her head, her mouth on his.

If they were fighting for real, James wouldn't have fallen for it, but now he kissed her back, cupping her head with his hand to hold her in place. He shifted up against her, feeling the blood rushing to his groin as she squirmed.

The kiss went on and on, Natalia's arms around his shoulders, and James could have kept this up forever.

Too soon, Natalia pulled back to look at James. Her eyes were dark, her cheeks flushed. "If that's how you wanna fight, you win," James whispered, breathing hard.

"We both win," Natalia said with a smile. She lowered her head, kissing a line down his jaw to his neck. One of her hands slid down his body to his waist, then lower, to press against his cock. "What do you want to do now?"

James stared at the ceiling, enjoying this more than he should be. "We should probably take off before someone walks in on us," he suggested. The last thing he wanted was Stark, or worse, Steve, to burst in and kill the mood. Also, he didn't think Natalia would be up for going much further with Jarvis monitoring the room.

He felt Natalia's teeth graze his neck, drawing a gasp from him. She let him go before the sensation became actual pain. "Come on." She pulled James to his feet, her hands never leaving his body as she moved them in the direction of the door.

"My shoes," he said, not stopping.

"They're not going anywhere," Natalia said with a laugh. Linking her hand in his, she hauled him to the elevator.

They did not encounter anyone on their way to Natalia's apartment. Once inside the door, Natalia pushed James against the wall and kissed him again, her hands sliding under his waistband. In return, James slipped his hand under her shirt and up her back, feeling the softness of her skin, the strength of her body.

With a gasp, Natalia broke the kiss. "Jarvis?" she said, raising an eyebrow at James' expression. "Please cease all monitoring in this apartment until further notice, requiring a manual restart."

"Affirmative, Agent Romanoff," Jarvis said. James hadn't known an artificial intelligence could sound so smug.

"You planning on saying something that might get his attention?" James asked, dipping his fingers beneath the strap of her bra.

"Who knows, I might say something in Russian," Natalia said, twisting out of James' grasp. "Come on, shower first."

He wanted to make some quip about how this was an honest sweat he'd worked up, but Natalia was stripping out of her clothing as she moved and all the words were knocked clean out of his head. "Okay," he said instead, his gaze never leaving her body as she tossed her bra at him, the fabric smacking him in the chest.

She turned and shimmied out of her pants, James following the movement of her bare behind into the bathroom.

Natalia was already in the shower stall when James cleared the bathroom door. He closed it behind him and shucked off his clothes, scattering them where they lay. Stepping into the shower stall with the steam already heating the air, he let Natalia gather him into her arms, her nearness all he could think about.

"What do you want?" Natalia asked, her hand sliding down his stomach, cupping his cock firmly.

In the two weeks since Texas, he had forgotten how _good_ this could feel. It took him a minute to find words. "This," he said after a moment, breathing in the warm moist air. "Together, like we used to be."

Natalia rested her head on his shoulder, her breasts soft against his chest. "Then let's dry off and go to bed," she whispered, nipping gently at his collarbone with her teeth. "And you can demonstrate how much you want me."

He wanted to fall into the moment, the heat and his tiredness only highlighting how much he wanted to be in bed with Natalia, touching her, making love to her. But something was missing, something he needed to know. "Do you want this?" he asked, drawing away a fraction. The shower's spray beat down around them, hot amid the white tile walls.

Natalia moved her hands up James' chest, up to his neck, where she laced her hands behind his head. "I do." Her voice was low, quiet. "I want you, James." She went up on her toes to kiss his forehead. "I love you."

 _Love_. Maybe it was love that was burning in James' chest, hot and aching and desperate as he wrapped his one arm around Natalia's waist, holding her to him, this need burning him from the inside out.

"Take me to bed," Natalia said in his ear as her hands resumed their downward path, one stroking his cock in long firm motions, the other moving down his chest. "Now."

What else could he say but yes?

* * *

Twenty minutes later, James was sitting naked on the end of the bed, wondering if it was possible to die from mortification.

"It's all right," Natalia said, moving on the bed behind him. The one small mercy left to him was that she hadn't turned on the light, leaving him in the darkness to his disgrace. "It can happen."

"Not to me," James said abruptly. And it was true; never before had he managed to lose his erection right in the middle of fucking Natalia, no matter how exhausted or in pain he'd been.

More movement behind him, the soft whisper of bare skin moving over cotton. Even so, he was not expecting the touch of her hand on his back, and he shied away from the contact.

She did not touch him again, instead moving to sit beside him on the bed. He could feel her presence, her warmth, even across the distance between them. "Do you want to try again?" she asked.

James dug his fingers into the blankets, biting his lip against the wild desire to laugh.

"We could watch a movie," Natalia went on, her voice calm and quiet and so understanding James wanted to scream. "It is late, we could just go to sleep."

James took a deep breath. It was hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. "How about we don't talk about it?" he said, voice too sharp.

There was a long pause, then the mattress shifted as Natalia stood. Footfalls across the carpet before the door to the hallway opened, and Natalia walked out. James could see the tiny green lights from the entertainment centre winking in the darkened apartment.

With Natalia out of the room, James could let out a shaking breath. He had thought nothing could be as humiliating as not being able to get it up for his woman, but no, he'd managed to find something far worse. His dick had been hard in the shower and through the hastily-fumbled foreplay, but once he had Natalia on her back, everything fell apart. He had been thinking so hard about how much he wanted this, how he wanted to show Natalia that he was still worth something in her bed, all while trying to keep his left side angled away from her so she wouldn't accidentally touch his scars, tried to hold himself up so he fuck her at the right angle. And he just couldn't stay hard.

He was so useless. He couldn't fight, couldn't fuck. What was the _point_ of him?

Footsteps on the carpet warned James that Natalia was returning. He wiped his eyes (Christ, had he been crying? Could he get any more pathetic?) and shifted further down the bed so he wouldn't get in her way.

The soft clink of glasses pulled him out of the maelstrom in his head. "What's that?"

"I'm turning on the light." With a click, the lamp switched on, and the soft light illuminated the room. Natalia, still naked, was setting a frosty bottle on the bedside table beside two small glasses.

James rubbed his eyes, trying to think about what he should to do next. Go sleep on the couch? Sleep on Steve's couch? Pack his bag and leave?

"You're thinking too hard," Natalia said as she uncapped the bottle. Carefully, she poured clear liquid into the two small glasses, and set the bottle back on the table. Under the frost, James could make out the Cyrillic lettering on the label. Vodka.

"Getting me drunk isn't going to solve anything," he said.

Natalia carried the glasses over to him. "Do you trust me?" she asked, holding out one of the glasses, almost a challenge.

He looked at her. Her long red hair fell over her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts. There was a red mark on the underside of one breast where James had been a little too rough with his teeth. He reached past Natalia's hand and touched the mark. He wasn't sure if he should apologize for that or not; there was so much else he'd messed up.

"Here," Natalia said, and pressed the glass into his hand. "Drink."

James knocked back the vodka, making a face at the alcoholic burn. "That's fresh."

Natalia swallowed the contents of her glass. "It's hard to find the real stuff," she said as she went to retrieve the bottle. "What they make for Americans is too smooth."

"You can still taste the paint thinner in this one." James held up his glass for another round. Already he could feel the first rush of alcoholic warmth spreading through his limbs. "What are you doing?"

"We could both use a bit of relaxation," was all she said. After refilling their glasses for a third shot, she put bottle and glasses on the bedside table, then gently manhandled James back into bed and curled up along his right side, resting her head on his shoulder.

James stared up at the ceiling, wishing the whole world would stop and go away. He wanted it to be dark so Natalia couldn't see his face, he wanted his fucking body to work right again, he wanted his arm back.

Natalia pressed her hand flat over his heart. "Hey."

James swallowed hard. He was not crying. A real man wouldn't cry about how fucking useless he was. But then, what kind of man was James now, anyway? "Hey."

"Feeling better?"

"Not really." All the alcohol was doing was to make his head feel slightly fuzzy. With his metabolism, he'd burn through the buzz in half an hour anyway. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Natalia pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "We'll get there."

James shook his head. "What good is that?" he asked, his voice cracking on the last word. "I can't do this," and he gestured down the bed. "If you weren't holding back in the gym, I wouldn't even be able to walk."

Natalia pushed herself up onto her elbow. "I wasn't holding back," she said.

"Yes, you were."

Natalia shifted on top of James, her legs sliding down around his hips. "Two days ago you took out half a squad of armed mercenaries by yourself," she said, staring down at him. "You had no weapons, no warning, in a place that I had promised you was safe."

James tucked a loose strand of Natalia's hair behind her ear. "That was different," he insisted.

The arch of Natalia's eyebrow was eloquent. "How?"

James pressed his shoulders into the mattress, settling Natalia's weight more firmly on his chest. The words he wanted to say didn't feel right in English, so, frustrated, he switched to Russian. "I didn't have a choice. It was what needed to be done."

"I know," Natalia replied, also in Russian. "It is how we are. When a thing needs be done, it is done. Only when we have choices, does it become more complicated."

"I don't even know what choice feels like anymore," James said, closing his eyes for a moment. Natalia laid her head down, but said nothing. "Nothing I do feels like I had any choice in the matter."

"What about me?"

James put his hand on Natalia's hip. Her skin was cool, exposed to the air of the quiet bedroom. Part of him wanted to tuck her into bed, keep her warm and safe forever, but he knew that Natalia could take care of herself. She did not need him imposing his wishes on her. "You weren't a choice, not at the beginning."

"You were the first choice I made, in the Red Room," Natalia said quietly. "When I shot at you."

That memory, even dimmed with time, made James smile. "That was the first thing that had surprised me in a very long time," he said. "Before I started to remember the rest of my life, it was the first thing that ever did." He turned his head to kiss Natalia's hair. "Do you think love is a choice?"

Natalia was silent for a long time, her fingers playing along his left side, up and down over his waist, but never over the scars where his arm had once been. "No," she finally said. "But what we do with love, that is the choice."

 _Love_. Had he loved another woman, before he had fallen from that train into the life of the Winter Soldier? His memories of life in Brooklyn, of life in the War, didn't hold many memories of women. There were drifts of recollection, women dancing and laughing with him, but the touches on his memories were light, as if they had not lingered long in his life.

The only real solid point in his memories before the Soviets was of one man. In everything that had been coming back to him for the last several days (hell, even before that in the months he'd wandered the earth after fighting his way out of the broken stasis tube), there had been Steve Rogers. Now, after having fought past the faulty memories of Osinov, of the knife in his ribs, all the time James had spent in the man's company was pulling back those memories of life with Steve.

Maybe that was the choice Natalia was talking about. He had chosen to stand with Steve against the bullies in the orphanage, had chosen to spend all his spare time with the kid, his new friend. When they grew up, too old for the orphanage any longer, he'd hauled Steve along to be his roommate in the small room they could afford in Brooklyn. And as if that hadn't been enough, they spent nearly all their free time together.

Maybe that was the choice -- wanting to spend all your time with someone.

"Do you think," James began, wondering if the vodka in his system was affecting him more that it usually did. "That you can love more than once in your life?"

With a sigh, Natalia pushed herself up. "Yes, I do." She shifted around to sit on his stomach. "I even think you can love more than one person at the same time." She reached for the vodka and uncapped it, taking a swallow directly from the bottle. "And no, I will not duel Steve Rogers for your affections."

"That wasn't what I meant," James protested, trying to sit up, but Natalia had him pinned.

"Everyone we love, we love differently," Natalia said. She put the bottle back on the table, then bent over James so their lips were almost touching. "When you're not fighting with Steve, I see how you look at him."

The sudden panic in his head pushed the Russian clean off his tongue. "That ain't what's going on," he said in a rush of English. "Me and Steve ain't never—"

Natalia shushed him, her fingers soft against his cheek. There was no condemnation on her face, no anger or accusation. Her look in her eyes was soft when she spoke. "Steve was once your very good friend," she said, switching back to English. "Watching you two in the gym, I think he might well be again."

"Yeah, friend," James said. "Fuck, I need another drink."

Natalia slipped off him, letting James sit up. She uncapped the bottle and held it for him to take. This time, he didn't wince as the alcohol slid down his throat.

"Steve's my friend," James said when the bottle was safely back on the table. His head was spinning from all the booze in his system; he was out of practice at this. "He's the best guy I ever met, all right? He'd give you the shirt off his back and fight anyone who tried to take it from you."

"I know." Natalia slid onto his lap, squeezing his hips with her thighs as she kissed him, hard. After a minute, she pulled back, leaving James gasping for breath. She was breathing rather hard herself. "You are important to me," she said, her body rocking gently against his. "And I want you to be happy."

She kissed him again, this time pressing him down onto the mattress. Her hands were roaming over his body, her hips moving in a familiar rhythm as she rocked against him, and it finally occurred to James what was going on.

With a twist, James rolled Natalia to the side, pulling back from the kiss with some effort. He wasn't sure why the conversation about Steve had gotten her going like this, but maybe he could use the opportunity to distract her. "It might make sense for me to give it a few more days," he said, gesturing down his body. Natalia's movements had sure felt nice against his dick, but the old boy wasn't exactly rushing to stand to attention.

Natalia's disappointment was written across her face, but she rallied. "We can sleep," she said, pulling away.

"That wasn't what I meant," James said. He shifted onto his left side, freeing up his right arm. "I mean, I'm not all that tired, and I can think of a way to occupy your time until you're sleepy."

He moved his hand between her thighs, pushing gently at her to open her legs to him. She shifted around slightly but kept her face close to his, staring at him as he slid two fingers into her body, his thumb rubbing circles on her clit. She didn't say anything as he added a third finger, only breathed harder. After a minute, the breaths deepened to soft panting, then to a moan that curled James' toes and brought a stiffening between his legs. Encouraged, James sped up his movements, watching as Natalia's cheeks grew pink, as her eyes darkened, as her lips moved slightly with every moan.

She came in a rush, her body tightening around his fingers, twisting as she cried out. James helped her ride through the orgasm, only stilling his hand when she grabbed at his arm, gasping for breath.

She was so beautiful like this, flushed and sated amid the blankets. James drew his hand from between her legs and rested it on her stomach. "Let me know when you're ready to go again," he whispered, kissing her gently.

Natalia murmured something into his mouth. When he pulled back to ask her to repeat herself, he found himself being pressed onto his back. "I'm sure I can find a way to pass the time," she said with a wicked smile.

Whatever James might have said was knocked clean out of his head as Natalia bent over to take his half-hard cock into her mouth. The sudden shock of sensation, the wet warm slide of her tongue down his shaft, pulled an exclamation from him.

She pulled up slightly, her tongue circling the head of his cock, her fingers wrapped around the base of him, moving up and down in a steady rhythm. "You can put your hand in my hair if you want," she said, then smiled and bent back to her task.

Maybe it was the vodka, or the two weeks since James had last reached climax, but Natalia's touch had never felt so good. She was certainly giving him no room to over-think things; with one hand on his shaft, one cupping his balls, and a mouth that was seemingly everywhere at once, all James could focus on was the sensations. He cupped the back of Natalia's head, her hair silky under his fingertips as she moved. It was almost better this way; he couldn't let out the tension by gripping hard, careful as he was not to put pressure on her as she took him into her mouth.

The alcohol loosening his limbs, James just lay there and let Natalia have her way with him. He wasn't sure how long it would take and didn't really care; this was so good, this was all that mattered, as Natalia drew him closer and closer to climax. He was hard now, and he wouldn't have blamed her if she pulled off him and climbed his body to ride him (and oh, what a thought that was) but Natalia only redoubled her efforts, hands and mouth and tongue moving on him. He didn't even try to stop the noises coming out of his mouth, words of encouragement and soft curses and the occasional moan.

His words choked off as Natalia let go of his shaft and slid her mouth down, and he could feel his orgasm coming hard. He said something, a warning or encouragement to keep going, something, when she took him in so deep and he came hard in her mouth.

He collapsed back on the mattress, spent. Natalia eased his cock out of her mouth and rested her head on his thigh. She was breathing hard.

" _Fuck_ ," James said after a moment, and Natalia laughed. She crawled up his body and lay on his chest, her thigh brushing his softening cock. "Wow."

When Natalia kissed him, James could taste his come in her mouth, on her tongue, and it sent a jolt through his body as he held her to him. When Natalia pulled back, a satisfied expression on her face, James could only stare up at her. "That was..."

"It was." Natalia traced his lips with a finger. "Are you going to fall asleep on me now?"

He could have; he was exhausted, and his first orgasm in two weeks certainly could have knocked him right out. But Natalia was still awake, the flush high in her cheeks, and James couldn't just leave her like this.

"Nope." He rolled them over. "My job here isn't done."

Natalia hummed under her breath as James kissed her breast, his tongue flicking over one pink nipple. "And when will it be done?"

James looked up at her. "When you can't stay awake for one more minute."

"And how do you plan on lulling me to sleep?" she asked, running her fingers through his short hair.

James moved to kiss the dip in her throat, before kissing his way down her body. "Allow me to demonstrate."

And so he did. Repeatedly.

* * *

James woke suddenly the next morning. Natalia was still sleeping next to him, motionless and breathing slow and even.

He wasn't sure what had woken him. He didn't remember if he had been dreaming or not. The red numbers on the clock told him that it was just past six. They had only been asleep for five hours, and the memory of what they had been up to before that made James smile in spite of his tiredness.

Natalia never failed to impress him.

Carefully, to avoid waking the sleeping woman, James slipped out of bed. Now that he was awake, he didn't want to go back to sleep; rather, he could use some time to himself to think through the events of the previous evening.

James found clothes and went into the living room to dress. Now that he was up, he wanted a cup of tea, but the sounds of the kettle might wake Natalia. Reasoning that he should let her rest, James left the apartment on quiet feet. He climbed the stairs to the group kitchen in the penthouse. He flicked on the electric kettle and watched the sun rise over Central Park while the water boiled.

James had a cup of tea brewed and was sipping at the hot liquid when Jarvis spoke. "Good morning, Sgt. Barnes."

"Morning, Jarvis."

"You are about early."

James smiled into his cup. "It's a wonderful world, Jarvis, ain't nothing wrong with wanting to enjoy it."

"Indeed." Jarvis' tone was dry as the desert. "When you are finished enjoying the view, Mr. Stark wishes to speak with you in the lab."

James set his cup down, frowning up at the ceiling. "When did they get back? Is Pepper okay?"

  
"She is," Jarvis confirmed. "They both arrived home from Washington late last evening."

James was already moving toward the elevator. "So what's Stark up to?"

"Mr. Stark keeps hours in accordance with his own interests," Jarvis said as James entered the elevator. The doors closed, and they quickly descended to the laboratory floor. "When he has a new project, he can become engrossed."

"Yeah? What's he working on now?" James asked, sauntering out of the elevator and down the hall to the glass airlock.

"I will leave that to him to explain," Jarvis said, opening the door.

Inside the lab, order had been restored from the attack two days previous. One of the robots was swaying to the music, some tune that had a lot of guitar and some guy singing. Tony Stark was hunched over something on the workbench, his face hidden by a welding mask.

James didn't try to make out what the man was working on. He didn't need flash burns on his retinas this early in the morning. "Hey, Stark."

"Hold on," the man called without turning around. "Jarvis, kill the music."

The music ceased, and the robot let out a metallic squawk.

"Shut it, Dummy, I know Jarvis sneaks on the vinyl for you when I'm not here." Stark set a small welding torch down, then flipped up his mask as he spun around on his work-stool. "Nice haircut."

James ran his fingers through his short hair. "It's the Captain America special."

"Very patriotic." Tony pulled off the leather glove he wore on his left hand. "So I had a lot of time to wait for Pepper yesterday and it came to me that Stark Industries could stand a new line of manufacturing."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Tony rolled the stool to the side, and James felt all the air knocked out of his lungs.

A metal arm lay on the bench.

"Sheppard lent me some of the specs on your old arm," Tony was saying. "The tech was surprisingly advanced for the Soviets."

The arm sat under the lights, gleaming mockingly at James. He couldn't help it; he had to see it closer. "They'd upgrade me sometimes," James said, his voice sounding distant to his ears as he neared the workbench. "Swap out old for new."

 "Still." Tony stood and picked up the arm, one hand under the shoulder, the other cradling the elbow. It was a beautiful thing, all gleaming metal and delicate plating. "I modeled this on the Iron Man armour, minus the explosives or propulsion."

James was close enough to touch the metal hand, excitement and anticipation churning in his gut with the painful remembrance of Dr. Keller's words, that his body was too badly damaged to put a new arm on him. He swallowed hard. "That's a good line of business," he said. "There's a lot of folks missing a limb. This is, uh." He stopped, trying to breathe against the lump of _can't_ in his throat. "This is good work."

Tony was looking at James with close attention in his dark eyes. "I need someone to test out a prototype for me," he said, turning away and taking the arm with him.

James made himself stand his ground. This arm was not his; Tony was just showing off his new toy.

"The arm's nothing by itself," Tony went on, hooking the arm on a stand, securing the shoulder joint in place so the arm would be secure. "That's just robotics, any idiot could make that." He plucked a small piece of metal off the counter and held it out to James. It looked like the metal monitoring device Bruce had used on James the previous morning after his seizure. "The secret's in being able to read brainwaves and translate that into motion."

James held the metal plate, staring at it, feeling like he had been clocked in the head. "What?"

"Put it on," Tony insisted, reaching for James. It was an indication of how sideswiped James was that he let Tony take the plate and press it onto his right temple. "See if you can move the arm."

Too startled to object, James thought about reaching out with his left arm, about grabbing something and holding it in his hand.

The arm on the stand moved, the bend of the elbow straightening and the fingers convulsing into a fist.

The sound he made was too surprised to be a word. He'd made the arm move. Just by thinking, he'd made the arm move.

The surge of triumph was quickly obliterated by remembrance. "That's one hell of a thing," James said softly. He thought about opening the hand, and watched as the metal fingers relaxed slightly. "Whoever gets to wear it will be a lucky guy indeed."

"Yeah." Tony drummed a tattoo on the workbench. "I thought you'd be the perfect person to test it, seeing as how you've got experience with previous models, but..."

James let out a breath. He would not react, not here. Not until he was alone. "From what the doctors tell me, they can't put attach anything weight-bearing to that side."

"Yeah." Tony dropped back onto the work-stool. "We could get it into a harness, strap that on if you want to go out with it. Just couldn't lift anything over ten pounds."

Ten pounds. What good was that? It wouldn't even be able to support his weight it he leaned on it too hard.

"Maybe twenty pounds?"

James reached for the arm with his right hand, touching the cool metal almost reverently. "I appreciate this," he said. "But I don't think it's going to work out."

"Stay for a bit," Tony said, watching him with that glittering dark-eyed attention. "Help me tune the reactions to your brain waves."

"Why?" James demanded, anger finally cracking through the churning sensation of loss. "What good is it to me if I can't even hold a gun with that hand?"

"Because I will make this work!" Tony exclaimed. "I built an arc reactor in a fucking cave, I can figure out a way to strap one weight-bearing metal arm onto a Soviet freezer-pop!"

James glared at Tony, and the metal arm jerked and reached out. Tony ducked out of the way of the seeking fingers, sending James an injured look.

"First rule of metal shop, no throttling the mechanic!"

"Sorry," James said, watching the metal fingers flex. "It needs calibration."

"Sit," Tony demanded, pointing at a spare place on the workbench. "We're going to run through a calibration sequence and if you try to throttle me, even once, I'm welding the arm onto Dummy."

James sat and did as Tony told him, heart pounding with excitement and anticipation as he slowly learned how to move the arm, brought the movements under his control, with the metal plate reading his brainwaves. If only there was a way to attach the arm to his body, to make himself whole again.

For now, he had to believe in Tony and the man's ability to work miracles. There had to be a way.

He couldn't come so close and _fail_.

* * *

It was nearly eight o'clock when James snuck back into the apartment. He'd come so far with the metal arm, had learned its tricks and quirks, and had taught the arm (or the processor embedded in the arm) how to do what he wanted.

Tony swore the arm was strong enough to lift nearly five hundred pounds, if it had a solid-enough foundation. It was only that lack of foundation that had them flummoxed.

Natalia's apartment was quiet and still. James tiptoed to the bedroom and opened the door, sure Natalia would be up and gone by now. But there she was, still lying on the bed, asleep.

As quietly as he could, James closed the door behind him. He chucked off his trousers, keeping on his underwear and t-shirt, and made his way over to the bed.

Natalia moved when he sat on the mattress, opening her eyes as he slid under the blankets. "Good morning," he said.

Natalia closed her eyes again and reached for James, cuddling up against him. "Where were you?" she asked, voice heavy with sleep.

"I went to make a cup of tea," he said. It wasn't a lie; he had made tea, just not in the apartment. "Did you sleep well?"

Making a soft contented sound, Natalia burrowed closer to James. He waited for her to ask him more about what he had been doing, but to his surprise, Natalia went back to sleep, curled up against his body.

She woke properly half an hour later. James, who had been fantasizing about all the things he could do with Stark's metal arm, stroked Natalia's hair as she blinked herself awake.

"What time is it?" she asked, sitting up.

"Eight-thirty," James said. "Lazy woman."

She slapped at his chest. "You'd be lazy too, after the night I had." Sliding back down, she rested her cheek against his shoulder. "That was one hell of a night."

James smiled at the memory. "It's going to be hard to top that," he agreed.

They lay together for a few minutes, then with a sigh Natalia climbed over him and out of the bed. "Back in a minute."

Once she was in the bathroom, James got up, stepping back into the trousers he had removed so short a time ago. He was in the kitchen making breakfast when Natalia joined him, herself having dressed.

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat on the counter, watching as James put bread in the toaster. "You're all energy this morning," she observed. She was smiling at him over her teacup.

"I had a very good sleep," he told her, and let he pull him over. Setting her cup down, Natalia leaned in and kissed him, slow and lazy.

They did not separate until the toast popped up in the toaster. "As did I," Natalia said softly, still smiling. She let him finish making breakfast, cheese and thin slices of ham on the toast, and settled at the table with him to eat. "Did you get up to anything else this morning?"

"No," James said, the lie coming practiced to his tongue. "Just checked out my email, messages from John, that's all."

"How is he?"

"He's good," James said. "He said he needs me to report in to Stargate Command in a few days. He's going to come to pick me up here."

Natalia lowered her toast. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," James said. "He said it was just routine. The doctors want to check me out."

Natalia pushed her plate aside and reached for James' hand, and belatedly he realized that he should have been upset about that, had in fact been so the previous day. "The doctors will treat you with respect," Natalia said, squeezing his hand in reassurance. "It will not be like before."

"I know," James said. "I just don't like doctors and scientists. I'll survive."

He smiled reassuringly at her, making sure to keep the expression just this side of false, knowing she would see what she expected; a man who loathed doctors trying to make the best of a difficult situation. "For how long will you be away?" Natalia asked.

"A few days, maybe more," James said, going back to his breakfast. He continued talking about the few details Sheppard had given him, not giving out any hint of his morning's activities.

He supposed he shouldn't be keeping such a big thing from Natalia, the idea that he could finally regain use of his metal arm, but he couldn't tell her until he knew if it would be useful or not. He _had_ to be useful, had to be the man Natalia had loved and fought beside before.

He couldn't get her hopes up that he would whole again, be the man she needed, until he knew it could happen.

He wasn't lying to her, just... delaying in telling the truth.

James just needed to know he could be whole again. The rest, he could keep to himself.

Natalia didn't need to know. Not just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr if you want to connect. <http://mhalachai.tumblr.com/>


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